Blood Bond
by PhantomProducer
Summary: Volunteering his life for a risky procedure, Sherlock Holmes wonders at the woman he's given his lifeblood for. Eventually Holmes/OC. Rated T for safety.
1. One Blood

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "One Blood" by Terence Jay (in bold).

* * *

May 15th, 1891

She ran faster than ever before. To hell with decency; she hiked up her skirt past her knees and clambered down the busy London streets. Besides, she figured she'd never had much use for decency anyway. The people she passed by were blurred, and she heard first the disapproving grumbling and then the frightened shrieks. The horses' hoofs were ringing in her ears, but she kept her eyes forward. Her legs had gone numb from the pain of running, and she was struggling for breath.

She couldn't rest, she couldn't pause…

For if she did, she was going to die.

**xXxXxXx**

"Watson, as much as you love to force me into exercising my mind and legs, can we not tarry on the way home? I am a busy man, you know."

The good doctor snorted, dropping his gentlemanly manner for a brief second while picking up the pace.

"Ah, yes. Busy with poisoning the dog, or busy scaring the wits out of poor Mrs. Hudson?"

Brown eyes reflected the hidden mirth within when John Watson looked at his friend's otherwise stony face.

"In my defense, I did not know she would be lurking about when I decided to practice my knife-throwing. Shoddy work that; I wasn't able to pin her skirt to the wall like I thought I could. Obviously I need more time to achieve this goal…preferably back home," the detective replied congenially.

"Holmes, really! You act as though I have threatened you with an early death by asking you to accompany me."

Sherlock Holmes, shooting his friend an appalled look, sighed, "I seem to recall you saying something about a thumping upside the head repeatedly until I went, and then the execution of said thumping."

Watson just grinned, his blue-gray eyes flashing brightly. "I did what I had to. Contrary to what you believe, you are not busy. You haven't been busy for months, and you know that I know that. It wouldn't hurt to-"

"Don't you dare suggest taking up those society cases," Holmes hissed, sidestepping a nun and giving her a respectful nod. Baker Street was alive and thriving with people that Friday. For some reason, it seemed every person of creed, color, and occupation had decided to mill around, clogging up the street and making hansom cabs slosh slowly over the cobblestones. The chatter was incessant, and Holmes' acute hearing was going haywire.

"They are still cases, Holmes," the doctor interjected over the noise. He jumped suddenly, knocking into his friend to avoid a man and his runaway cart, the wares bouncing all around. Holmes barely paused, straightening his jacket (actually Watson's borrowed from years ago) and walking on.

"Huh, hardly! The old Countess is missing this, that Lord is suspicious of that…that's not work worthy of me. Challenge, obscurity, that is what work is, Watson. Nothing those dreadful upper-crust harpies bother me with are cases," he announced readily, his head tilted proudly towards the sky. Unfortunately, what Watson said was true; Holmes had not worked in exactly two months. All his leads on Moriarty had left him with dead ends, and the lull of peace had descended back onto the people of London. Not to mention the fact that his best friend had moved out of the Baker Street residence and speedily married, and therefore was less available to assist him with whatever could come up. Despondent and melancholy, he'd taken to experimentation and dabbling with the needle again.

**_We try hard to learn…__But the lesson is lost there, in the smoke and the mud, that we are one flesh, one breath, one life…_**

Still, if he wanted to work, he wanted it to be worth his time and effort. A consulting detective could only get so far with ridiculous contracts and simple conclusions.

"Besides, I'm occupying myself well enough in the time between serious works."

Watson rolled his eyes, but refrained from commenting. His gaze swept across the street instead, attempting to retune his observation skills. Under Holmes' strange tutelage, he had been trained to pick out five unusual discrepancies from his everyday surroundings. As of late, that talent had been used mainly for physical examination of patients, instead of wandering people and towering buildings.

So absorbed was Watson in his endeavor that he hardly noticed his friend suddenly start next to him.

"Watson, Watson, can you see?!"

The doctor glanced around. "See what, Holmes?"

"Look ahead! The crowd is parting like the Red Sea before Moses!" Holmes grunted, concentrating intensely on the distant commotion. "People are sharply maneuvering away from the center…there's something coming."

And it was true, for at that moment a Landau carriage came speeding directly down the center of the street, men and women darting to avoid it. Only, rather than keep going on their way, they were riveted to their spots. Eyes watched in shock as the cab roared on. Before Watson could wonder what was going on or Holmes could venture a theory, a scream was heard above the clomping feet of the horses.

"BLOODY MOVE!" a female voice hollered. Well, that answered the question of why people were paying far more attention than they normally would to a galloping cab. A woman was sprinting in front of it…for the moment. Her dress implied she was better off than most; her manner of movement and speech suggested that she was not raised in the gentry. Running, an activity reserved for instances like the current one she was in, was not entirely unfamiliar to her. Sherlock would guesstimate that the last time she sprinted was within the last few weeks, given her ease and lucidity with the sport. Her face, blanched with fear, reflected that she was young and the lines on her head were newly developed. Lastly, at the present moment, she only just managed to keep ahead of the horses, provided she kept her footing.

Provided a heel of her beaten-up shoes didn't slip into the slim crack that was only half a kilometer ahead. The one that only the trained eye could notice…which was the one the detective could spot. Watson looked on, his mouth hanging open at the sight of the woman, while Holmes just froze in surprise.

"Oh no," he somehow breathed, analyzing the details thusly presented. The driver of the coach, whipping the horses on, clearly had intent. Intent on hitting her, maybe even killing her. But the lack of emotion on his face illustrated that he had no feeling towards her. Obviously he was a hired hand, chosen by a well-to-do person with the monies necessary to pay both driver and supplements for the job to be done. Every person had cleared the cobblestones to let this demented parade pass by, blocking in the men. The carriage closed the gap with each passing second, and the girl, in one fleeting moment of foolishness, looked back…only to get her foot caught in the crack.

An audible pop of her ankle dislocating was heard, and down she went. Time slowed as she slammed face first into the stones, curled up in a defensive ball, and the first horse stepped into her.

**_Then I fell to the ground…Tasted ashes on my tongue__…Thinking that only the dead are forever young…_**

Moments seemed like ages as the wheels turned slightly, crushing the mystery woman's body over and over. Once the carriage had made its pass, the only thing that could eloquently echo in Sherlock's mind was that the unlucky girl, though bleeding profusely and twisted and folded in on herself, was still breathing.

Her keening cut through the air, and immediately everyone sprang into action. Watson jumped forward, shouting for people to give him space as he hobbled over to the unfortunate creature lying in her pooling blood. Now, he'd seen some horrible things in his life: fellow soldiers having their limbs amputated to stay alive, prisoners being tortured for information, even the decimation of his own body after being wracked with illness in Afghanistan. Yet it wasn't everyday that one watched a Landau trample someone near to death and not even bother to stop.

"Can't believe this," Watson muttered to himself, doing a swift check of her vitals. Holmes tramped around the perimeter, deterring the tantalized onlookers.

"Stay back!" he cried, kneeling down beside his friend hastily. "Let's see…broken leg and arm, separated ankle, cracked and broken ribs, deep gashes from the undercarriage…she could live on."

The doctor's lips pressed into a thin line. "Only if I treat her immediately and only if...we mustn't waste more time."

The detective moved forward, groaning aloud, "How convenient then that we are so close to home."

221B was just twenty feet ahead of them, and so with Sherlock supporting her head and torso and John looping an arm under her legs, they shuffled into the house. They hardly acknowledged the presence of Mrs. Hudson, who was swaying dangerously upon seeing the bleeding woman in their arms, and proceeded up the stairs. Drops of red followed them up and over the threshold, creating sickening warmth as the drips spread out onto their clothes.

Once they reached the landing, Watson lurched forward and kicked open the door to Holmes' domicile. The pair clambered in and laid her down on the bed against the far wall, the only neat thing in the myriad of strewn papers and discarded clothing. Stripping off bloodstained coats and even waistcoats, the men went to their separate tasks. Holmes rapidly gathered up his personal supply of medical instruments while Watson sent a messenger over to Cavendish Place to retrieve more tools. They removed her dress and corset to better attend her; she had passed out and could not refuse otherwise. Canes and strips of sheets were used to set the broken leg, and broken stool legs were used for the arm.

"She's breathing, though painfully, so it seems her lungs haven't been punctured," John surmised, trying to stitch up one of the deeper gashes with the needle and thread borrowed from the landlady's sewing basket. A bottle of antiseptic was discovered beneath a pyramid of books, and was used to prep the needle for each stitching. "It's a wonder her neck or back wasn't broken. But the cuts seem to be the worst of her problems. She's lost quite a bit of blood."

"What do you recommend then, my dear doctor?" Holmes queried, laboring over stemming the flowing liquid coming from the intact arm. More antiseptic, more stitching, more time was flitting away.

"The riskiest thing we could do in this unstable environment," he remarked sadly, tying off a knot, "a blood transfusion. But the boy I sent needs to come back with my Gladstone bag, and even then I'll need to send someone off to Bart's to obtain the right instruments since moving her is too hazardous, and then there's the matter of who we can find to donate their blood."

"I'll do it," Holmes cut in softly, wrapping yet another bandage around her frame. There was no response from the doctor, as he could see by the set of his friend's jaw and the dark shadow in his eyes there would be no dissuasion. There was no need to mention that the business was dicey, and that she could reject the blood or worse yet, that Holmes could die. Sherlock was too damned smart for his own good, knowing the problems of the procedure and yet still taking up the gauntlet for a complete stranger. His mind was made up; the look of experimentation was on his face. He was prepared to give his life just to see if the transfusion could work with the high stakes stacked against him.

Still, Watson had to at least try. "There's always saline-"

"-Which neither you nor I have," the detective interjected. "And time, dear fellow, is not on our side at the moment."

**xXxXxXx**

Miraculously, all that Watson needed to perform the procedure was at the house within an hour. Days later, he would marvel at the speed his messengers had moved and retrieved his tools. But at the moment, his thoughts were occupied with the process ahead. Holmes, diligently swallowing fluids to fortify himself, sat in a chair pulled up next to the woman's ailing body. Her breath was becoming shallow; there was no more time to lose.

Prepping the equipment, Watson had to ask once more, "Are you sure, Sherlock?"

"Positive, John," was the answer from his friend. Downing another glass of water, Holmes applied a tourniquet to his arm. "It will be interesting to see if she survives this."

"It will be a damn bloody miracle, that's what," Watson cursed, agitated by the detective's flippancy. Pushing his feelings aside, he adopted his calm doctor demeanor. "Time to do this, then."

Holmes nodded, holding out his arm expectantly. In a strange show of revulsion, he turned his head when Watson plunged the syringe in. Attacking himself with a needle was something he could stand; having a friend do it for him was a bit humiliating in a way. Well, if he were one for humility, that is. As the cannula filled with his blood and descended into a waiting bottle, he stared at the woman in front of him, centering his thoughts simply on breathing and observing her. Beyond thinking of how his scarlet fluids would flow through the other cannula into her, his coherency was shot.

'_Breathe in, breathe out, Holmes…'_ he told himself sternly, focusing on her matted hair and pale face. The freckles on it stood out significantly. He hadn't noticed how dark they were before. The process was draining him. Before long, he would have to signal to John to stop.

**_And I will take all your suffering…if it will do any good …Cause we are one flesh, one breath, one life, one blood._**

"She's already looking significantly better. I think that should be enough," Watson murmured somewhere in the distance. Soon enough the equipment was pulled out of both bodies, sterilized and packed away. "She may run a fever, I've seen it happen to a number of patients, but that's all we can expect for now."

Sherlock said nothing, only dutifully sipped some water and kept staring.

"Holmes?"

Still nothing.

"Holmes."

He jerked in his seat as if he had been electrocuted. "Yes, Watson. I am still listening. I was merely…drifting."

The doctor nodded, exhausted. "Well, you keep on with the water for now. I shall be back tomorrow; send someone to me if anything else happens to her."

"Will do, old chap."

"I am serious, Holmes. Do not introduce anything to your system in your weakened state, I mean it."

Holmes smirked, sighing, "Of course, Mother Hen, no funny business tonight."

And with that said, Watson left, barely aware of the crowds gathered outside the house, or that the late afternoon sun was sinking into the horizon. He spent the whole of his journey praying the girl could recover, in some strange turn of events.

Holmes spent his evening plucking at the fiddle, or laying on the floor, but his eyes were always riveted on the unconscious form occupying his bed. The woman was still breathing, still living, his lifeblood pumping through her veins.

**_We are one flesh, one breath, one life, one blood._**

Only time would tell if she would survive.

* * *

**Author's note:** Blood transfusion was an incredibly risky business back in the 19th century, and even harder to research about if you're kinda squeamish about blood (like me). I tried to correctly name the instruments used, and I hope that they were used properly. If not, my only excuse is that I am not a medical student and have no idea of the 19th century procedure, therefore I could only guess. Saline was used as a substitute in transfusions in the later 1800's, a Landau was a particularly heavy carriage drawn by four horses, and "Bart's" means St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London. Hopefully that helped end some confusion. Thanks for reading this first chapter, let me know what you think, please, and see ya later!


	2. Panic

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "Panic" by The Smiths (in bold).

* * *

May 18th, 1891

For fifty-two hours, the woman slept. Her breathing grew steady, and although she was flushed with fever, it exited her system swiftly. Sometimes though, her eyes flicked open as if she was ready to rise. Moments later they would shut again, blocking out the world. With her being conveniently unconscious most of the time, Watson found that it was easy enough to wrap and bind her broken limbs properly. And Holmes' daily activities resumed within twenty-four hours, but he was careful to clomp over to the doctor's abandoned lodgings and close the partition just in case.

Watson, once again over to perform his rudimentary check on her, thought she was on the mend.

"Perhaps she's going to come out on top," he said, listening to her lungs with his stethoscope.

"Yes, Madeline hasn't rejected the blood and could very well recover," Holmes stated discreetly, poking a stack of papers repeatedly with his boot. John squinted, too curious to let it pass.

"How do you know her name, pray tell?"

Without looking at his companion, Sherlock pulled a twisted bit of paper from his pocket.

"She was carrying a note inscribed to a Madeline in the purse that was strung around her waist. Logically one would conclude that she is Madeline."

Watson was slack-jawed for a second. "You went through her clothes, Holmes?"

"My dear friend, what choice did I have? It was imperative to know who she is. No doubt there are people out there who are going to report a missing woman of her height, looks and so on, and it would be better to have them know she is alive and…if not well, then on the way there," the other man rationalized. "Besides, not knowing the name that went with the physical attributes was maddening."

The doctor rolled his eyes, and muttered, "That's not the point; I am speaking on the principle of the matter."

"And what if she had died? We would've needed to put a name to the body. Hardly fair to turn in the poor creature we worked so hard to save without a name, eh?" Holmes continued as though his friend had not spoken. Clearing his throat, he began to read from the slip, "'Dearest Madeline, I implore you to come visit me. I have missed you so-'"

John jumped in, "Holmes, that's rather presumptive of you to read a private letter."

"You know, the address on this envelope is for a house down the road. This explains why she was on Baker Street; she was originally on her way to a visit, and then the trip became a quest for asylum from the mad coachman," the detective speculated. Watson found himself nodding at the logic, and then shaking his head irritably.

"You're not listening to me!"

Quirking an eyebrow at the abrupt change in subject, Holmes remarked, "Quite right, my good fellow. I applaud you for distinguishing the difference between 'hearing' and 'listening'."

As the two became fully occupied with their bickering, they failed to notice the stirring in the bed. Madeline blinked once, twice, three times and tried to focus on her surroundings. She remembered the carriage, the intense pain, and two pairs of eyes staring at her, but not much else. Her left arm and right leg were immovable, and she felt the pull of her stitches when she twitched her other arm. Letting loose a hiss, she felt something other than the oppression of cracked ribs constricting her breath.

Panic.

'_Where am I? How am I still alive? Who is it that's got me strapped down so?' _she wondered, her eyes darting about the ceiling. Turning her head to the side, she witnessed a clump of cloth sitting on the ground. _'And why is my dress on the floor?'_

Pulling a blanket over her underclothing-clad body with her good hand, she then spotted two men engaging in an argument. One was a bit taller than the other, his bright blue eyes glittering in exasperation. The other was darker in coloring, his hair almost black and his eyes spying her suddenly. She knew those eyes well…every time she woke they hovered above her. Gulping, she felt more fear flood through her frayed veins.

_**Panic in the streets of London…I wonder to myself…Could life ever be sane again?**_

"Doctor Watson, it appears that our patient has woken finally," the darker man murmured. Blue Eyes, or Watson she supposed was his name, whipped his head fully around and shot her a reassuring smile. With a few short strides, he was by her side and at the job of examination again.

"How are you feeling, Miss…?" he asked, trying to draw her full name out of her. She didn't disappoint.

"Madeline St. James. Where-?" she began, attempting to sit up and nearly screaming as the broken ribs flashed with new pain. The doctor requested she lie back, informing her of the extent of her injuries. Her mouth flopped open unbecomingly at the news.

"I daresay you might want to close your mouth, young lady. As the saying goes, you could end up catching flies if you leave it like that," Dark Hair cut in, smirking slightly. Immediately she snapped her jaw shut, wincing when her teeth clacked together.

"We brought you in straight away, and you're in Mr. Holmes' rooms at 221B Baker Street," the doctor said, half glaring at his compatriot to shut him up. "I will not lie to you, Miss St. James-"

"Missus," she and Mr. Holmes said at the same time. Blinking, she looked at him in confusion.

"Her ring finger has two lighter bands of skin where the engagement and wedding rings once sat," the detective explained. "But they're no longer there…widow?"

Clearing her throat, Madeline affirmed, "Yes, right on that count. My husband passed away three years ago."

"Hence why your dress wasn't the customary black, but still is a darker color to reflect the end of your mourning and still having reverence for your husband's memory."

She glanced at Watson. "How does he do that?"

He just shrugged. "It's his job, Mrs. St. James. Anyway, back to what I wanted to tell you before I was so rudely interrupted…"

"Dreadfully sorry, old chap," Holmes replied cheerfully.

"Like I was saying, I cannot lie to you, Madeline, in that we did all we could to make sure you'd survive. We undertook a great risk to make sure you'd come around."

Her eyebrows arched in surprise, and she wondered, "What was the risk?"

"We had to perform an emergency blood transfusion," John confessed, watching her face pale rapidly. Quickly he continued, "I know it's a nasty business, but it's what saved your life."

"I see," she mumbled, her eyes darting everywhere. The mention of blood made her incredibly sick to her stomach, and the fact that she'd apparently lost so much that she needed somebody else's made her want to vomit. Taking in massive gulps of air, Madeline struggled to get out, "Who…who gave me their blood?"

She then watched as Mr. Holmes wordlessly unbuttoned his left cuff and rolled up the sleeve, revealing a thick wad of bandages identical to the one on her right arm. The sickness in her subsided for a moment, allowing her to absorb the great kindness the man had done for her. He did that, for a stranger, no less! A trembling smile graced her lips, but still she pointed to the nearest waste-bin and motioned for it to be brought to her. The urge to vomit overcame her pain, and somehow she managed to sit up and take the bin when Holmes handed it over. Both the men had the decency to look away as she dry-heaved into it.

"I apologize," she weakly murmured after she was finished, glad her stomach had been empty for the past few days. "Really, I am sorry for this."

The duo gave her assurances that they'd seen worse, that it was nothing they couldn't forgive. Dr. Watson then decided to inform her that given the state she was in, it would be the right thing to keep her on bed-rest for awhile.

"We still have yet to see how well you'll react to the treatment, but I have confidence that you could very well be up and about soon," he said, straightening his cravat and beaming in relief.

_**I wonder to myself…Hopes may rise on the Grasmere…**_

Madeline wanted to get to the point. "What exactly does 'soon' mean, doctor?"

"Until the majority of your wounds heal, you may be here possibly for four to six weeks."

"WHAT?!" she and Holmes crowed unanimously yet again.

Soldiering on, she sputtered, "But, but, but I can't be here for four weeks, let alone six! I need to go home!"

"Really, Watson?! That much time?! She needs to be moved to the hospital!" Holmes groaned aloud, his face creasing with bemusement and fury. The doctor let them rabble on to the individual reasons why she couldn't reside at the Baker Street residence, which were mostly about Holmes and his "habits" being the deterrent to the idea, until the pair had finally run out of steam.

"If you're both quite finished, I will tell you why she must stay here. Madeline, you are in a delicate condition. Moving you out of this house before you are healed or fully adjusted to the blood could have dire consequences," he pointed out sharply. Turning to his friend, he said, "And I am aware of the fact that that coachman wanted her dead. You know, as well as I, Holmes, that she'd be a sitting duck for another attack were she to leave."

The detective deflated, crossing his arms. "I concede the point."

"There you go. Find out whose hunting her down, and in the meantime she can recover from the trauma she's endured," Watson said smugly. "Wonderful, a non-society case to take up."

Holmes bit his lip, knowing he could've taken that moment to be completely ungrateful and ungracious. However, he managed to keep his comments locked in his brain and only grunted noncommittally. The doctor, assured of his victory, called up the landlady and informed her of the situation, pleading with her to bring the two some food while he stepped out for the night.

"Doctor, please, I would rather not impose," Madeline tried once again, her appeal falling on deaf ears.

"Nonsense. You can't move without incredible pain, and so I won't move you," Watson said, crossing his fingers behind his back as he tailed on the lie, "The time will fly by, I promise. Now just rest up, and I will be back tomorrow, along with my wife Mary."

Glimpsing Sherlock's sour face at the mention of Mrs. Watson, she almost missed that Mary would be coming by to aid her in the ways he couldn't by biting down a giggle. Taking that to mean bathing and dressing, she grinned mirthlessly and agreed to the terms, putting him at ease.

"Thank you, Doctor Watson," she said, signaling that he was able to leave things where they were. Once the fellow was out the door and on his way, she let out a slow breath. "And here we are."

Holmes snorted, "What a place we are at."

Pivoting her head in his direction, she was about to counter what he said, but considering the truth of his words, she just sighed again and shrugged. Running her hand through her hair, her eyes widened in shock when her fingers got caught against the matted blood.

"Mr. Holmes, if I could ask you to do me a favor, would you do it for me?" Madeline spouted in a dull monotone.

Coming out of his sullen leaning against the far wall, he responded, "I suppose so."

Flashing him her most pitiful look, she whispered, "Could you cut my hair?"

**xXxXxXx **

An hour later, Sherlock marveled at the fact that he had complied with the request. It took a lot of effort just to get her to be sitting comfortably, and then a good while was spent on filching Mrs. Hudson's sewing scissors just to do the deed. He insisted they eat first, and she readily complied by wolfing her meal down so fast that he'd hardly gotten halfway through before she held out the cutting utensils expectantly. But there he was, snipping away many inches of Madeline's hair, and not very well, either. At least he was certain now that he would never be able to be a barber if he ever retired from his detective duties.

Her honey-brown strands, caked with blood, slipped away easily when chopped off. He was painstakingly slow at the job, causing her to shift occasionally in boredom. Each move, though, cost him an accurate cut, and her soreness was renewed.

"Stop that," he demanded lightly, "I don't want to accidentally cut you."

She became as rigid as a block of wood, eager to come out of the event unscathed. Having new pain compacting the old was not relished.

"I'm sorry," she replied softly. Taking a moment to brush the snipped hairs off her back, Sherlock shook his head despite her not being able to see him.

"No apologies, just stay still."

"Sorry."

"What did I just say?"

"Sor-" she cut herself off, clamping her jaw tight. A grimace pulled down the corners of her mouth, and Holmes took it as his cue to continue. Eventually, he finished with cutting and started sweeping the hair into the vomit-bin. Madeline's hair was now barely half the length of her neck, alarmingly shorter than before. Tugging on the strands, she couldn't stem her desire to see herself. Requesting a mirror, she observed Sherlock glimpsing his work and blinking deliberately.

"You really don't want to see it. You've had a poor excuse of a barber trim it off," he said, pushing the bin away. It went without saying that she most likely wouldn't want to see the bruises that had sprung up on her left eye and chin. She chuckled, her ribs aching as she did so.

"Even so…" she trailed off, catching her reflection in the window glass three feet away. "Oh my…"

They both just stared at the image in the glass, one wearing a look of chagrin and the other a look of detached interest. She'd never imagined her hair being that short in her life, nor that she'd have purple blotches on her face. Seeing her hair hacked away and face pummeled was astounding. Minutes passed, and when nothing came from her lips Holmes felt the heaviness of ennui descend upon his mind.

'_Time for the needle,'_ chanted the addicted part, and as he turned to resume his habits in the empty room, he became aware that his new flatmate had said something to him.

"Come again?" he queried, stopping in his tracks.

Madeline, her eyes glazed over with unshed tears, swallowed before saying, "I said thank you, Mr. Holmes…for helping me."

There was no missing the double meaning. Cutting her hair was nothing; giving her his blood was everything. The utterance of the words was simple, but the heartfelt quality to them made the sentence profound. It was all she had to give him in return for the work he'd done for her, but to hear it coming from her living lips was enough.

"It was no trouble, Mrs. St. James," he heavily pronounced, giving her a slight bow before departing. He took up the needle once he was away, and she examined her living space until she was ready for sleep.

_**I wonder to myself…Could life ever be sane again?**_

As they both reclined in their separate sleeping quarters, Madeline and Sherlock had the same thought: just what would the next four-to-six weeks be like?

* * *

**Author's note:** Guesstimating on the recovery time, but I felt that four to six weeks would be understandable. Personally, I love writing the squabbles between Watson and Holmes. It's so much fun…and I am on a roll, updating twice in a week. Well, it gives me something to do while I'm on Spring Break. And yes, Madeline has a name, hurrah! Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed the update. Please review, and I'll see you all for the next chapter.


	3. What is This Feeling?

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "What is This Feeling?" from the Broadway musical _Wicked _(in bold).

* * *

May 21st, 1891

Dipping the nib of her pen into the ink, Madeline began penning a note to her dear friend, Ruth Bray. She had to talk to somebody about her…predicament. Nanny Bray was the one she was on her way to visit before getting hit, and despite the single appearance the old woman had paid her at 221B, she wasn't able to get much out of her other than blubbers and tears. A note would be sufficient in expressing to Bray exactly how trying her situation was. Three days of full consciousness with the consulting detective was worthy of a sainthood, she thought (though he was good enough to give her paper and pen when she asked).

-'My dearest Nanny Bray…'-

Across the room, Sherlock Holmes was writing a letter to Watson. The doctor had decided not to cancel his vacation in France with his wife, and therefore put Holmes in charge of Madeline while he was away. He hadn't expected the work to be so taxing, and aggravating. Ergo he needed to confide the monstrous burden of the duties to his friend, and sending a telegram was out of the question.

'My dear Watson…**'**

_**There's been some confusion over rooming here…**_

The pens paused. The recipients had to be reassured of the senders' strength in these matters.

'But of course, I'll care for the woman.**'**

They were both adults, and had to adapt to the circumstances.

-'But of course, I'll make do.'-

_**For I know that's how you'd want me to respond. Yes, there's been some confusion, for you see my roommate is…**_

Madeline's eyes flicked up, studying Mr. Holmes critically while searching for the right words. He almost glared back at her, daring her to keep on with it. Eventually she lit upon them, and diverted her attention back to the paper.

_**Unusually and exceedingly peculiar, and altogether quite impossible to describe.**_

It was the fairest way of summing up Holmes' character. After three days of living with the man, she found the habits he'd alluded to were indeed strange. Tobacco resided in a Persian slipper, a stack of notes were affixed to the mantelpiece with an evil-looking knife, and she'd witnessed him withdrawing from the room with a needle in hand for obvious cocaine use. Then there was the way he'd just lay on the floor, not moving an inch or speaking around the clock. It made conversation impossible and she was left with feeling uncomfortable.

The changes in his moods were dramatic. Madeline at times would find him to be an amiable fellow, though he wouldn't talk much to her. Later that night, though, he would be striding across the rooms in fury, his hands combing through his hair and his eyes seeing right through her, or the wall, or whatever one thought he was looking at. God forbid if one knocked over a stack of papers accidentally; there was a mistake she did not care to make again. The chemical experiments were almost tolerable, except when he went after the dog; she threatened to break her bones again unless Holmes spared the pup. Gladstone, the poor thing was called, took to burrowing under the bed beneath her when he sensed the detective's experimenting eye on him and had her special protection.

And the infernal violin practice! At any and all hours Sherlock could be playing the instrument, and half the time the tunes were unrecognizable. She supposed she would have a more lenient attitude toward his musical expression, if he did not play while she and the rest of the world were trying to sleep. He did the gentlemanly thing (as he referred to it) of playing some pieces that she'd adored to make it up to her, but it still was irritating.

She didn't like vilifying her caretaker via a private message, but how could she put a positive spin on a man she hardly knew?

-'If I had any choice, Nanny Ruth, I would much rather stay with you. Unfortunately, I cannot even descend the stairs, let alone move about the three small rooms up here. It is tiresome and harrowing having to depend on a stranger with double personalities and upsetting concoctions he tries to force-feed to the pitiable dog. With love, Maddy.'-

Holmes, in turn, was looking for the correct description of Madeline.

_**Blonde.**_

Shaking his head, he scratched the word out; she wasn't a true blonde, just a high brunette. In any case, it wasn't her physical attributes that were entirely bothersome to him. Besides being a near-parasite, she seemed to have ungainly tendencies. Not once, but five times had she put his organized chaos in jeopardy by simply extending her arm and knocking over whatever sat next to her. Someone that clumsy was a detriment to another's way of living. Rather unkindly, he thought it was no surprise that she did trip and get walloped by the coach, given the amount of trouble she could cause just by wobbling out of bed or in a chair.

The stubborn streak in her almost rivaled his. Save for the request to have him cut her hair, she'd turn down every other offer of help thrown her way. In the beginning Madeline insisted she didn't need any assistance. Clearly she'd gotten used to fending for herself after her husband's death, but when it came time to move to the water closet, she realized that she couldn't even get there on her own. Dressing was a difficulty (one that Mrs. Hudson had taken to assisting with), and sitting up could still cause her an abnormal amount of soreness. It was easy to see how much her self-esteem was affected; pointing out that her clenching jaw would lead to the destruction of her teeth just made her grind them in irritation. Her pride was being sorely tested, especially when the pain was too much and Holmes had to administer morphine to her damaged body.

Lastly, his chief concern with her was that she would not divulge her case to him. In fact, if Sherlock even remotely touched on the subject, she'd clamp her mouth shut. Further observation revealed that she wasn't doing so out of obstinacy, but more so out of fear. Her "nervous ticks" were to narrow her eyes, and her undamaged hand would shake slightly. Most likely she would be perspiring too, but he didn't care to get close enough to find that out. Therefore, whatever or whomever she suspected to be the cause of her "accident" was close enough to home that she was terrified of what could happen were she to tell.

And then she'd counter with nosy questions about his life; the man who once accused Holmes to be a busybody should've met Madeline St. James. Though his occupation required him to know the details of everyone and everything involved in the case, she was just naturally inquisitive. He wondered if anyone had told her the story about the cat and curiosity. Changing tack in the letter was definitely called for.

'For all the above reasons, I believe you should come back at once, Watson. I feel you'd have better luck drawing answers from her than I, as she is adverse to all interviews. I urge you to reconsider your prognosis on the recovery time, and return to London immediately. Sincerely, Sherlock Holmes.'

After a perfunctory blow on the ink to dry it and folding the letter over, Holmes finished putting the flourish on his signature and rose to collect her note for delivery. What happened next was the spark that would ignite the powder keg sitting beneath their situation.

In the process of extending her letter to the detective, Madeline overturned the loaned ink flask.

"Oh, no!" she cried, her face burning in embarrassment. There was no way to correct the error other than to quickly save what was left of the ink. The bottle, though, was snatched away swiftly from her hand. The interloper had once again done damage to his room, to his bed, and he could not let it pass this time.

"No, no, don't bother!" Holmes growled, stamping away with both letters and ink in his grip. "Yet another mess you've caused in my home. You're truly a hazard, St. James."

Were it two days ago, she'd have mumbled an apology. But it was a new case entirely; she was sick of being trapped in the bed, swallowing down her comments in place of politeness.

"I rather think it adds to the décor, Mr. Holmes," she mused sarcastically. "With mess upon mess, a little ink stain makes no difference."

Though his back was to her, she could hear the frown in his voice. "Perhaps not to you, but I do indeed have things in order. Matters are not helped when important documents get overturned, or precious commodities are wasted on the sheets."

_**What is this feeling, so sudden and new, I felt the moment I laid eyes on you?**_

"Excuse me, I did not know. Next time when I upset your precious materials with my shattered body, I will throw myself at your feet and beg your forgiveness."

_**My pulse is rushing, my head is reeling, my face is flushing…what is this feeling?**_

Her angry tone rolled right off him, and he chuckled darkly, "Given that you cannot even stand up properly, I would not be able to tell whether you were prostrating yourself or if you had fallen on your way to the window seat."

"What, the greatest detective in the world wouldn't know something? A sure sign of the apocalypse!" she snapped, hardly caring that she was pushing the bounds of her good luck.

_**Fervid as a flame, does it have a name? Yes…**_

"Never have I met such an esoteric, bumbling, and utterly obdurate woman before in my life!" Sherlock hollered, his vision growing red.

_**Loathing.**_

"And I have never known a more inconsiderate, tactless, horse's arse of a man in mine!" Madeline threw back.

_**Unadulterated loathing.**_

If one were to step in between the glowers that the two directed at each other in that moment, that person would've melted from the ferocity of it. Eventually they both looked to the ground, their brains roiling from the confrontation. Grabbing up his pen again, Holmes reopened his letter and added on a hasty postscript. There was no way he could let her behavior go unremarked, even in a private note.

Stabbing the paper intensely, he ended his writing and snatched up his coat. The rooms felt stifling, and he had to get away.

"Where are you going?" Madeline asked, causing him to bite on his lip at the sullen inquisitiveness in her voice.

"It's none of your concern," he grumbled, practically sprinting out of the room, down the stairs and through the front door. Shoving the letters into the postman's hands at the office was not even registered in his brain, as he was preoccupied with his new evening plans. Energy pulsated throughout his entire body, and he knew he needed to put it good use.

_**There's a strange exhilaration in such total detestation…it's so pure, so strong…**_

It was time to enter the boxing ring again; for once, emptiness of the mind seemed to be the right thing for him.

**xXxXxXx**

Two days later, the feud had not been resolved. Instead, things slunk back into the awkward politeness and avoidance that they'd been accustomed to the first few days. Madeline, though keeping her tone in check, was shooting daggers at Sherlock whenever he looked at her. And he, in an effort to retaliate in some form, took to giving her a private violin performance…for five straight hours. From one o'clock in the morning straight on. A pillow promptly smacking him in the face sent him flying precisely at sunrise.

Sherlock Holmes had drawn two conclusions after that: women were the most vexing creatures on God's green earth, and now he'd had the second most galling of them living without gratitude beneath his roof.

Mrs. Hudson never looked more relieved to deliver Holmes the reply telegrams Watson had sent him.

"Ah, what's Watson's report?" he crooned, swiping the papers from the landlady's hands. The joyful expression on his face faded with such speed that Madeline couldn't help a giggle before turning back to the copy of "Hamlet" she'd found in the book pyramid the day before. Quickly the elder woman swept out of the room, afraid of the Holmes armory making its reappearance on the premises.

The first message was a reprimand, one that he was half expecting to come from his old friend:

SHERLOCK HOLMES, 221B BAKER STREET, LONDON, ENGLAND

WILL NOT COME BACK STOP TRY TREATING HER LIKE HUMAN INSTEAD OF FREELOADER OR SIMILAR STOP SHE IS STILL RECOVERING AND WILL COME AROUND WHEN APPROACHED DECENTLY STOP

JOHN WATSON

The second, however, was just a blow to the ego:

SHERLOCK HOLMES, 221B BAKER STREET, LONDON, ENGLAND

SHE CALLED YOU A HORSES ARSE STOP DID NOT READ THAT BEFORE STOP MOST AMUSING STOP

JOHN WATSON

"Leave it to a friend to be so disparaging in my time of need," Sherlock muttered to himself before stashing the papers into the coal scuttle.

"It's what they do best, isn't it?" piped the invalid still occupying his bed. He couldn't help the ungentlemanly snort that shot out.

"For once I am inclined to agree with you, madam."

She dropped the book and met his gaze with an electric grin. "As much as it pains you, I am sure."

"Indeed," he said, feeling the corners of his mouth twitch slightly. A comfortable silence settled between them, and for some reason they both had the distinct feeling that this was the closest they would ever get to apologizing to one another.

There were valid points in the first telegram; Holmes could've been much more congenial if he aimed to be, and in the past two days he didn't strive for it. Truth be told, he didn't see a reason to, as the rooms were his and he was not entirely open to sharing them with anyone but Watson. It wasn't her fault she was trapped in the predicament as well. No sense blaming her for the events that caused her to become a semi-mummy.

In hindsight, Sherlock realized it was good of them, in a strange way, to have already argued. It bled out the poisons they could've let build up over the weeks of compulsory companionship. It was time to take a step forward and move on from the clash.

All one of them had to do was speak.

Several moments passed before he heard the woman awkwardly cleared her throat.

"Do tell me, Mr. Holmes, how you obtained that nasty bruise on your cheekbone," Madeline murmured, sitting up as delicately as she could. "Cornered by a street gang, were you?"

"No, nothing of the sort," he answered, leaning back on his elbows and crossing his legs. "A fellow was able to gain the upper hand in the ring at one moment, and gave me a right cross as a reward for my laxness."

"You box?" she asked, quirking up an eyebrow. "Intriguing."

A feeble step forward, but it was one they were apt to utilize. Sherlock regaled her with the ripping tale of the entire match, via his analytical step-by-step processing of moves and the reactions of the actual opponent. And, through the hour of exchanged pleasantries that followed, the rift was on its way to being mended.

* * *

**Author's note:** It wasn't the chapter you thought it was, was it? I must be bored over break, because this is the most I've ever updated in a week's time. With inspiration hitting me constantly, what else can I do? Soon enough we'll find out Madeline's case and history, but I was struck with the idea of the two verbally bashing each other. Personally, I find Mrs. St. James' response most amusing, just like Watson did. Telegram writing is an interesting process...Please review, thanks for reading, and I'll catch you guys later!


	4. La Vie Boheme

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc. "The Three Musketeers" is the property of Dumas.

**Song lyrics:** "La Vie Boheme" from the Broadway musical _RENT _(in bold).

* * *

May 27th, 1891

"Mrs. St. James, you have visitors," Mrs. Hudson announced the Wednesday of the second week. The younger woman exchanged rapid looks with her companion over his paper. The police had come several times in the past two days, informing her that they were ruling the case an accident, but still searching for the driver. The look on Inspector Lestrade's face when she told him that she wished her case to be handled by Mr. Holmes was priceless: furious with a touch of embarrassment and malice. After a moment of verbal blundering, the inspector scoffed and said that any "theories" the consulting detective had would remain thusly as theories. Still Madeline stood firm by her decision; even though she still hadn't told Sherlock much information, she just didn't feel comfortable with anyone else taking the case. The man had given his blood for her, and she felt she could at least give him some work in return. But only when she felt safe enough to speak. She rather hoped it wasn't Lestrade back at the house again.

"Who are they, Mrs. Hudson?"

Madeline's bright green eyes lit up profusely when the landlady continued, "One of them told me to say that 'Porthos and Aramis have come to see the lonely Athos.' Peculiar creatures…I told them I would see if you were well enough before allowing them to barge through."

Holmes, examining the newspaper with renewed fervor, snickered at the name choices.

"The musketeers have come? 'Pon my word, I best absolve myself of all my crimes, lest they find some fault with me and decide to do away with me like Milady."

Madeline rolled her eyes, shooting him an exasperated smile and then told Mrs. Hudson, "Let them come, please. I am feeling well, and would so enjoy speaking with someone other than the nosy old detective."

"I believe I shall take that as a compliment, as it is my duty to observe and know what other people don't," Sherlock responded, lowering the paper and smirking. "Do show them in, Nanny."

The landlady bobbed a short curtsy and closed the door behind her, pattering down the steps as fast as she possibly could. Shortly afterward two pairs of clomping feet ascended the staircase. Cocking his head to the side, Holmes quickly rattled off the data acquired.

"Two women, one with a sweeping dress and heavy steps indicating extreme height or weight and the other stepping slowly yet unfettered by yards of silk and iron. Incense is perfuming the air. Nun, perhaps?"

"Very astute, Mister Holmes, but there is one thing you've missed."

"And what is that?" he wondered, curious.

"You've missed that since I am still mostly immovable, you have to get the door. They been waiting outside while you've drawn up your conclusions," Madeline remarked, pulling a blanket around her shoulder and sitting up. Her ribs were definitely on the mend, but not quite there yet. "Please show in my old friends."

Sighing and grumbling about women overtaking his domain, Sherlock ultimately did the gentlemanly thing and swept open the door. The sight that greeted him almost made him laugh. Even so, he barely managed to get out his next comment calmly.

"Well," he nearly spluttered, "I see that they do indeed live up to their namesakes."

One of the women was, well, nearly giant. She stood at an even six feet tall, her bright red hair spilling out of her hat and her obnoxiously pink dress spilling everywhere else. The other was petite, wearing the habit of a novitiate and clutching a bouquet of violets in her left hand. Both women looked at Holmes, then to each other before bursting out in laughter.

"Oh dear," the Amazon said in an American accent (specifically Southern), "if I'd known that there would be someone else here, I wouldn't have told that old biddy our nicknames."

"It's just as well," the other intoned, her own accent lightly Scottish, "you would've announced it to the neighborhood anyway."

"Hullo, girls!" Madeline cried, pulling their attention away from their conversation. Immediately they flew at her, cradling her as gently as they could. "Julianne, Constance, mind the ribs and arm!"

"So sorry, dear Athos. It's just that we've both only received telegrams from Mrs. Bray of your condition, and we're both so grateful to see you alive," the giant Julianne crowed, patting her friend's hair. "My, that cut is so scandalous! You didn't do that yourself, did you?"

"Oh, yes. I was able to somehow cut my hair with the use of one hand."

The redhead blinked, and was silent for a few moments. "…That's not funny."

"Tut, tut, Madeline, you know you cannot be so literal with her," Constance murmured, pulling up a chair and shrieking when she spotted a dead rat sitting there. The violets scattered everywhere, the newly-added decoration to 221B.

"My apologies, it appears my experiment was not a success," Sherlock intervened, swooping over and collecting the animal carcass. The two new women stared at him in confusion and horror. "What is the matter?"

"Oh my, where are my manners?" Madeline jumped in, shaking her head at her acquaintance's faux pas. "Julianne, Constance, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He and Dr. John Watson were the ones who pulled me out of the street and saved my life."

He and the ladies exchanged nods and "how do you do's", with him discreetly throwing the dead rat out the open window. The one called Julianne gushed about how she'd read about him in the papers, and how relieved she was a brilliant man like him was able to rid the world of Lord Blackwood. Constance just gave him a look of repugnance, until Mrs. St. James decided to speak again.

"Mr. Holmes, these two are my friends from finishing school. The lovely creature in pink is Mrs. Julianne Tyler," the bed-ridden one supplied, knowing full well he was about to dissect her character in five seconds.

"Ah, yes, wife to Mister Stephen Tyler, the up-and-coming steel tycoon from the Colonies. You indulge in the finer pleasures of life, being an outright glutton and a forthright speaker. You've recently ended an affair with your husband's personal attendant and you've just arrived from your new estate in Kent," he listed off, enjoying the look of surprise in the giantess' eyes.

"How did you know all that?" she whispered, almost reverent in her tone. Madeline closed her eyes and groaned under her breath.

Holmes shrugged. "Simple deduction. You have a ticket stub for the train from Kent protruding from your purse, indicating that you live in that county, and Mr. Tyler was reported to have purchased a new home there with his wife, Julianne. In other words, you. You have flecks of chocolate, coconut, and thyme occupying the corners of your mouth, showing that you have no restraint when it comes to food. The way you burst into the room and chattered on without thought preamble is evidence enough of your unrestrained speech. Upon my opening door, you leered at me in a way that shows that you have thought of pursuing an affair before outside of marriage, and you did it so confidently that it means that you have done it before. However, since your husband as of yet is not friendly with the gentry of this country, one would conclude that you had the affair with his single manservant. That, and the society column reported such drivel of a rumor about you recently."

Julianne collapsed on the side of the bed, her mouth gaping. Madeline just shot her a pitying look. She did ask, though…

"I rather suppose, Sister Constance, that you would want me to keep my observations about you to myself," he said, glancing towards the postulant.

"Yes, please," she replied, eyeing him with disdain. Actually, she was eyeing everything with disdain. Clearly the switch from a barren chapel cell to a room encompassing abandoned equipment, bullet holes, and tea sets was a bit disturbing for her. "How strange, sir, that you seem to have your eyes wide open and yet cannot see the disarray of your rooms."

Madeline, with a burst of strength, reached forward and gave her friend a small pinch.

"Do excuse her, Mr. Holmes, she's merely defending Julianne," she said, covering her friend's little croak of pain. Rather than point out that she had just defended him from Constance, he only smiled.

"I do believe there is a passage in the Bible that goes, 'Look to the plank in your own eye before pointing out another's.' Roughly paraphrased, of course," Sherlock quoted, sitting himself down and perusing the paper again. He was looking for any story that could be linked with his new client, and so far was coming up with nothing. The nun could not keep her opinions to herself, though.

"How lightly you use that phrase, sir. It does so seem to apply to you as well. This room, such squalor! How is it habitable?" Constance purred, lacing her acid words with a demure tone. "It's just so…so…"

"Bohemian!" Mrs. Tyler proclaimed, withdrawing from her shell once more. "Truly, this is a clear example of bohemian living. No distinct order, your art being your livelihood, your home exploding with color and chaos! It's all about freedom of expression, and so beautiful!"

"You are romanticizing me, madam. I do believe you may need to meet with my biographer; he tends to share the same opinion as you upon my habits and such," Holmes said, giving up on reading the newspaper entirely. Vaguely he wondered if Watson wouldn't mind walking with him to escape the hens cackling in his home.

"It takes some getting used to, but it is functional, this style of living," Madeline said softly.

"Chuh, bohemian living...dens filled with degenerates and their wasted lives. Where is the merit in that?" the postulate said, raising her eyebrow in challenge. Madeline's hand connected with her head; the afternoon was not going well at all.

Sherlock gasped, mockingly, "Degenerate, madam? Heaven forbid the thought. I suppose nowadays the idea of 'do not judge lest ye be judged' is more of a guideline."

_**To days of inspiration, playing hooky, making something out of nothing, the need to express to communicate…**_

"Perhaps I and my home are not conventional, but my methods provide for me and allow me to observe things no normal person can deduce upon their first look."

_**To going against the grain, going insane, going mad…to loving tension, no pension, to more than one dimension, to starving for attention, hating convention, hating pretension…**_

"In fact, I am willing to argue that people are more bohemian than they care to admit. Identifying that everyone is simply either man or woman and title bearing no more weight than any other word…there is the merit, my dear woman."

_**To being an "us" for once, instead of a "them"…**_

"He does have a point," Madeline said, smiling almost proudly. Julianne sat, enraptured by the detective's smooth talking, and Constance frowned. Intentionally she turned her face away, instead focusing on her injured friend once more. Sherlock shrugged imperceptibly, rising for his chair. He really wanted out of the building at that moment.

Before he left, though, he went to the mantle and reaffixed the hunting knife to a different stack of papers. Upon further reflection, he also dumped the tea kettle's contents on the aging wood, causing the air to become scented with the smell of soaking tea and old water.

It was still his home, and how he wanted it to be, it would be that way. Society's outlook be damned, that's how he would have it.

_**Viva la vie boheme.**_

"Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I have some business to attend to," he graciously announced, bowing to the women and gathering up a scarf and jacket in the same movement. Five steps later he was out the door, and down the stairs. As he strode away, he could hear the hearty applause and thigh-slapping from two ladies, and the huff of indignation from the third.

It was time to be around at least one member of the male populace. Hailing a cab, he instructed the driver to take him to Cavendish Place, with an extra bit of money to be paid if he could be there in ten minutes. At least Providence had smiled on him enough to bring the Watsons back a day early from their French tour.

**xXxXxXx**

It was long after sunset before Holmes returned to Baker Street. A sojourn at the Watson abode was much-needed, although he did receive an earful on proper behavior in front of ladies.

"_There was only one lady in that room, and she is accustomed enough to my habits now that she did not find it offensive at all," Sherlock ascertained over dinner._

_Watson, raising an eyebrow, chuckled, "Indeed? Hard to believe that you'd call the woman who named you a specific part of a horse's anatomy a lady."_

_Making his expression blank, Holmes replied, "Yes, well, it was true in this case. It would've been rather unintelligent for her to complain about her surroundings when we've already discussed it."_

_John felt a slow grin growing upon his face. Holmes, reading the implication there, frowned._

"_Something amusing you, Watson?"_

"_I think you're starting to like her," the doctor commented nonchalantly, spooning potatoes onto his plate._

"_She's easier to live with, since everything is properly arranged," Sherlock said, eager to change the subject. Glancing at Mrs. Watson, he asked, "So Mary, do tell me: when the baby will arrive?"_

_Mary's face paled, a bit mortified, before giggling, "In about seven months' time, Sherlock."_

"_I will not even deign to ask how you knew that one, Holmes," Watson said, coughing and shuffling his feet._

And so the dinner went, with much discussion on what the names would be for the newest edition to the Watson family and how far Holmes could progress without a full account from Madeline. Eventually, his visit had run its course and it was time to go home.

The house was dark, save for the single light coming from the upstairs window. He was ecstatic to not have to meet "Nanny" at the doorway, with her chiding him for his abysmal timing and his work keeping her up at all hours. Slipping off his shoes, he carefully treaded the stairwell, avoiding the creaking steps with ease until he reached the landing.

The minimal candlelight poured from a crack between the door and opening, and he couldn't help but peer in. At this late hour, Madeline was still up, lying upon the window seat and gazing sightlessly at the darkened streets below. In the candle's glow she looked alternately sickly and stoic. The blanket was still tossed about her shoulders, covering the mishmash of clothing she was forced into that morning. Her cropped hair, tucked gingerly behind her ears, was falling loose the lower her head dipped to her chest.

Knocking on the door, Sherlock chortled a bit at her spastic movements. Jerking her out of a reverie was a hilarious thing.

"I saw the light," he explained, waltzing in and reoccupying his abandoned chair. Taking another look at her bowed head, he queried, "Penny for your thoughts, Mrs. St. James?"

With a tight grimace and rapid closing of her eyes, she mumbled, "I apologize for Constance. She was raised in a rather strict family. Things have to be done a certain way with her, and her years at the school have taught her to speak up about it…I admit that the order in her life is something I admire about her, but she wasn't right to insult you that way. I feel responsible for her behavior; she was my guest, after all. One can only hope when she becomes a full nun she will learn to bite her tongue."

Holmes just shook his head. "No need to feel that way. I gathered from her prim way of dress and demure posturing as being habits of a lifetime, and not just of her calling to God. Once she opened her mouth, she confirmed it. Her scope of the world is so small, I had no hope of fitting into it from the beginning. It's all just words, inconsequential prattle."

"I also think you've gained an ardent admirer in Mrs. Tyler. With you ripping her person to shreds verbally, one would think she would be put off, but no," Madeline teased, "she rather fancies you now."

Her companion shuddered. "Heaven forbid that."

"She's an acquired taste, that girl. Both of them are…but when you've practically grown up with them, you get used to it."

She spread her right arm wide, as if to say, "what can you do". He snorted, and rubbed his eyes briefly.

"Yes, yes…any more to tell me?"

She glanced to the left, and shook her head no. He pointed a finger at her and wagged it.

"Liar," he remonstrated gently. Watching her eyes blink swiftly from being caught out, he added, "Looking down and to the left indicates it."

Heaving a great sigh, she shifted in her seat, and held out a piece of paper. Taking it, he surmised that it was from Mrs. Bray, handed over by one of the ladies during the visit. Scanning the note, there was only two lines of text:

Lawrence arrived at my home, looking for you. He knows not where you are.-RB

"I wanted to wait, to see if something like this would happen," she said, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead. "If I'm going to be honest, I was afraid that he would attempt to find me right after the fact. But this late note, it just makes me wonder at Lawrence's…carelessness, if you will. Why would he wait so long? To hear if I was dead…or alive?"

Pocketing the note for later examination, Holmes persisted in staring at her, willing her to speak.

"I'm ready to talk now. About that day, I mean."

Leaning forward in his chair, Sherlock pressed his fingers together and rested his elbows on his knees.

"Pray, start from the beginning," he stated, eyes wide and ears opened. "Leave no data out; it is imperative for you tell me everything."

* * *

**Author's note:** Whew, that was a lot to write. Sorry for the cliffhanger, but I wanted to at least get the case going and this was the only way I could figure out that wasn't a bad idea. With my spring break virtually over, I will be going to posting only once a week, as I'm in at least three classes that require me to write many papers for them. So thanks for reading, PLEASE REVIEW, and I'll be seeing you all in about a week!

By the way, RENT is an awesome musical. Really.


	5. Brave

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "Brave" by Idina Menzel (in bold).

* * *

"Three days before the...accident...I had received a note from my dear Nanny Ruth. I'd not heard from her in three years, as she'd taken a tour of Europe to celebrate her retirement from teaching, but I knew she kept some rooms on Baker Street. Recently she had returned and was readjusting to stable living. She was requesting a visit, as she was missing me dearly and was expecting me the upcoming Friday promptly at three o'clock. I was never one to go completely against my nanny, and so I exited the house at quarter past two that day," Madeline murmured.

Holmes was sat quietly, intrigued. "Where do you live?"

"173 Sloane Street," she rattled off. "I chose to walk for a ways because, well, because I actually wanted to. It was freeing, reminiscent to running without being improper. When I rounded a corner, I noticed a cab waiting down the road. I passed it without giving it thought. The reins slapped loudly against the horses' flanks, and looking over my shoulder I saw it start to trot behind me. Still I gave it no mind, as I was too absorbed in seeing Ruth again. But then, I heard its clattering wheels grunt and moan as I turned onto Park Lane. My heart began to flutter, and experimentally I started sprinting down the cobblestones to see if it was following me. Risking a glance back, I saw the driver whip the horses sharply and compel them to go faster. Then I just threw caution to the wind and ran. I hoped to reach Nanny's door before I got trampled. Recognizing the Baker Street sign when I arrived, I thought I would be safe…until that damned crack caught my heel."

Madeline slumped in the window seat, and rested her burning forehead against the cool glass. Sherlock processed the explanation, but he could see by her fidgeting that there was more to tell.

_**I don't know just where I'm going…And tomorrow is a little overwhelming…And the air is cold and I'm not the same anymore.**_

"Wonderful summary, but that begs the question of who this Lawrence is," he said, twitching the note in his pocket. She sighed, trepidation filling her veins.

"It's simple," she began. "Lawrence is…was…is my brother-in-law. And to be perfectly frank, he has never cared for me. Not since the day his brother began courting me. If he had known what Great Aunt Florence was planning, he most certainly would've prevented my marriage to Simon."

"Hmm…" Holmes hummed, "aside from the stubbornness and maddening inquisitiveness, why would you be of any concern to him?"

Madeline drew a deep breath, hesitant to put her long-secret suspicions into words.

"You have to understand, Mr. Holmes, that for the majority of their lives, Simon and Lawrence's parents had been dead. For years they had no one to depend on but each other, and for someone new to enter the picture…did not sit well with the younger brother. I fear he was jealous of me."

She stared coldly into the detective's eyes, driving the point home.

"Unnaturally jealous. I have no real proof of this, but I saw things in his eyes that I've seen in men who are angry when their wives talk to other men, or when a woman is angry with her sweetheart for dancing with someone other than her. And the looks he'd turn on Simon…Perhaps it was foolishness in my mind, wanting to make him more of a degenerate, but…I know what I saw."

Sherlock grimaced at that. "Fine family, that."

Madeline shook her head. "Simon was a good man, but he only saw brotherhood with Lawrence. Seeing something beyond never occurred to him. Which is good, considered I was married to him. Not that such an occurrence would've ended it. My marriage was the only thing keep my family's name out of the muck."

The detective's eyes flicked over her. "Was it opiates or alcohol that threatened your father's life?"

"Excuse me?" Her cheeks flared red, rage billowing below the surface in an instant.

"You mentioned a great aunt arranging your marriage. Not your mother, who I assume died due to a chronic illness, seeing as how you've only ever spoken of her in the past tense and with a childlike fondness and clarity of memory which belies her passing with you between the ages of five and ten. Nor did your father do it, even though he would normally be responsible for constructing such a match. Especially a match to a barrister, so the question remains why an matriarch did this instead. Only if the elder male was incapacitated in some way, but was still around to comprehend the damage that could be done to a daughter who had reached a marriageable age, could that be possible. So I ask again, for my own edification: opiates or alcohol?"

_**If this is the moment I stand here on my own…If this is my right of passage that somehow leads me home…I might be afraid but it's my turn to be brave.**_

The woman swallowed, tears held tightly in her eyes and her chin rising. "…Alcohol, Mr. Holmes. Drank himself to a death which was eleven years coming."

He nodded, his demeanor stony. Something in his glare softened as he replied, "Your mother."

She turned her gaze to her knees. "And my brother. Father began to carry a flask on his person at all times when they were sent away. They died in the sick house of consumption, both of them. Two months apart; Harry went first, and then Mother followed quickly. I was ten. With the family shop failing due to his drinking, I was sent to live with Florence Rogers, his aunt. The woman was the wife of an architect; she could've been one herself, she knew just how to build things. Things that involved people, anyway."

She turned away and rubbed her eyes, the lateness getting to her.

"We never got along, her and I. I was too impetuous, too wild and unladylike for her tastes. She blamed my mother for it, and I hated her for saying such things about my mum. Only two good things came out of my time with the woman: I had Nanny Bray taking care of me, and I had a home again. And then I turned thirteen, and Florence set aside her dislike of my personality to look for ways to better our name again. Once I thought her to be a doddering old fool, but she had plans for me, and very craftily she began to put everything into place. Even now, I have to hand it to her; she had to make sure that every avenue she pursued would be unhindered and profitable for me."

"Avenues that included a boarding school in Yorkshire?"

Off her surprised look, he shrugged. "You have traces of Yorkshire in your accent. You were not born there, otherwise it would be more prominent. It had to come from somewhere, and you had to have picked it up in your formidable years of education."

"True enough, I suppose. Yes, that's where I went to school. It was…well, it was expected of me to go, earn good marks, and I did that. The only important thing for any of us girls to learn was to become proper ladies of society. Though I did meet Julianne and Constance there, and I did earn a couple of bad marks for choosing to run foot races with my dress tucked up so I wouldn't trip."

_**At least it's the first day of the rest of my life…I can't be afraid 'cause it's my turn to be brave.**_

His eyebrows jumped up, a corner of his mouth struggling to work into a wry grin. "Very ladylike."

Madeline rolled her eyes and groaned, "So I've been told. Is this relevant to the case, Holmes?"

He leaned back in his chair. "Honestly, you've been more to the point than some of my clients have been in the past. More often than not, I hear their life stories, which sometimes holds a clue to motivations and the like. What I'm gleaning from this is that with having similar childhoods and similar upbringings, this bonded you to Simon, but alienated your brother-in-law because you developed a bond. And with you loving him-"

"I didn't love him," she cut him off, her mouth ahead of her mind. She closed her eyes, annoyed with her blatant honesty. She couldn't take it back now, though. "Simon St. James was six-and-thirty years at the time, and still unmarried. My great aunt had stumbled upon the veritable treasure of men for me: not too old, not too young, well-off and respectable. He courted me, sweet man that he was, and we became friends. Being seventeen, I was lucky and glad to marry a friend. I cared for Simon, as much one could care under the circumstances, and perhaps it was a sort of love, but I wasn't in love with him."

_**And I might still cry, and I might still bleed…These thorns in my side…**_

Opening her eyes again, she did not find anything like judgment or irritation in Sherlock's gaze.

"I admired him for his intelligence, his well-versed mind of law, his kindness. I was happy to make him laugh and converse with him, and to help him when he needed me. Lawrence failed to see the true nature of the relationship, and he never gave us a moment's peace because of his own delusions. To a young woman, really a girl at seventeen, it's incredibly hard to share a marriage with a third person," she continued. "Years of resentment built up, with bickering between us turning into full-on rows that ended with Lawrence being ejected from the house and me shaking with rage. More often than not, we put Simon between us, which was totally unfair, but I refused to be an outsider in my own marriage. I was so much younger then, and I was so headstrong that no matter what I felt, my marriage was mine, and I wouldn't let anyone ruin it for me."

"I take it making amends did not occur to either of you until well after your husband's funeral."

"Put bluntly, no, it didn't. Lawrence was of a mind to be in a drunken stupor even before Simon got sick, and he was in no state to be seen when we put my husband in the ground. Cholera had been the undoing of their parents, and he had been turning to the drink to cope for years before we'd ever even met, and then it claimed another of his family. What else could he do, really? He packed up his things and went away, to the Continent, to sort himself out. I maintained the family residence, which was left to me in Simon's will. We did not speak again personally until many months after, and I was in no mood to humor him then, either. Rather than demand filial rights, he's been residing in Lewisham since that day, and we conversed only by letter to maintain the illusion of familial harmony."

Madeline snorted. "I've become very talented at denial. Thank you, Father, for the early life training."

Holmes sat up straight, ignoring the jab at herself. "And have you kept up this contact with Lawrence to this day?"

The woman shifted, growing uncomfortable from staying in the window seat for too long.

"Yes," she confessed, toying with a loose string on her skirt. "But only monthly, and it has since changed to claiming belated brotherly affection. I don't care one whit about him anymore one way or another, to be honest, but I still try to reply politely. Guess I'm trying to make it up to Simon after years of not doing so."

"The last time he contacted you was…?"

"The day Mrs. Bray contacted me. Lawrence's primary messenger, a maid named Millie, was at my door with his letter. He's employed her for years, trusts her to manage his affairs like a secretary of sorts. Although I don't know what sort of affairs he deals with; in all the time I've known him, his business ventures have failed more often than not."

Holmes felt his foot begin to tap impatiently. He murmured, "Did anything seem peculiar about that day, when she came?"

Madeline squinted, thinking hard. "Not that I can say. I do remember speaking with her, though. She was being a little smart for my taste, but then again, look to her employer for that answer. Millie sneered at me when she delivered the letter, looking down her nose at me. I thrust the envelope into my dress pocket and told her to send my regards to Lawrence. 'Will do, ma'am,' she spat, spinning on her heel and striding down the steps. As she swept away, a folded note settled on the threshold. When I called her back to give her the paper she'd dropped, she smartly replied that the letter was wedged under the door when she got there. Of course, this was Ruth's note, and then...everything I mentioned earlier happened."

_**And lightning may strike this ground at my feet, and I might still crash, but I still believe...**_

She smiled, exhaustion in her countenance shortening the expression.

"And the next thing I knew, I was in this room, broken, dazed, and wondering exactly who those two men bickering in the corner were," she finished. "Has any of this helped you?"

"I believe I have a firm grasp of the situation," Holmes murmured, stroking his chin. "I have just three questions to ask of you, and then I'll bid you good night."

Rather than speaking an affirmation, she nodded her consent and blinked sleepily. Sherlock cleared his throat sharply to make her jump to attention.

"Right, stay awake now, madam. What is the size of your household at the moment, meaning servants?" he queried, watching her face scrunch in concentration.

"Just three. My maid Janet, the butler Mason, and the cook Mrs. Talbot. They served my husband since before we married, but they like me well enough."

"Good, good. And in your brother-in-law's?"

Madeline raised an eyebrow. "I believe it's just Millie who serves him on a permanent basis; they are accustomed to one another. He does have a vicious temper when intoxicated, so that tends to work against him as an employer."

Holmes smirked confidently. "Just as I thought. One last question for the night: have you noticed any differences between Ruth Bray's letters and the note you received that fateful day?"

A spark of understanding lit up the lady's face.

"I do recall a certain slant and shakiness on the words. She explained though that her carriage was incredibly rocky and that was the cause of the discrepancy in a postscript."

"I see...it's all become significantly clearer, madam," Sherlock announced, rising from his seat and placing her good arm across his shoulders. Once her weight was supported and she was balanced, he walked her slowly over to the bed. Madeline shrugged him off quickly, sitting on the mattress and swinging her legs up without aid. Undeterred, Holmes steadied her, and then impulsively covered her with the sheets. Blinking, he recalled the words Watson had drilled into his head.

'_Perhaps I am finding her likeable now,'_ he thought, coughing awkwardly before retrieving the flickering candle. _'She has a brave soul, and that is a hard thing to not admire.'_

Aloud he said, "Good night, Mrs. St. James."

In three quick strides he was at the door, but Madeline's voice caught him on the threshold.

"Sherlock, this was…not an accident," she said calmly, sounding resigned to the truth. As the minutes passed, she began to think he'd gone, but then he spoke.

"What happened to you was nothing short of attempted murder. I will find the person responsible," Holmes told her, his face creased with care in the candlelight. Her words were not unnoticed; using his christian name indicated to him that she was desperate for an answer. Bobbing his head, he departed from the room and sat in the lounge downstairs. Sleep would not come to him easily to him that night, if at all. At daybreak, he would venture out and search for the vital evidence to capture Madeline's assailant. But until that time came, he could only think of the widow upstairs and her convoluted story.

_**With everything I have inside, everything I own…I might be afraid but it's my turn to be brave.**_

"Watson might be interested in this endeavor," he mused to himself, preparing himself mentally for the day to come.

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**Author's note, edited 12/4/12: **Seems like I keep making major revisions to this story every few months or so, but the original version of this chapter just bothered me, even after I'd first wrote it. I feel like this works a lot better than the first one I put out here. In any case, I hope you enjoyed it, and please review!


	6. Lonelier Than This

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "Lonelier Than This" by Steve Earle (in bold).

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May 28th, 1891

Hailing a cab early the following morning, Holmes sped over to Cavendish Place and, with little persuasion, employed Watson in the hunt for evidence.

"What have you discovered, Holmes, that requires my assistance?" the doctor had to ask as he clambered into the carriage. The detective leaned forward in his seat at once.

"With Mrs. St. James finally explaining her side of the case, I can bring this matter swiftly to a close. Provided that I can find the evidence I am expecting to find at her home," he murmured, launching into a shortened version of the tale Madeline spun for him. Upon seeing the doctor's eyebrows jump halfway up his forehead at the mention of the brother affinity for his sibling, he had to stifle a chuckle.

Thankfully for Watson's tender sensibilities, the trek over to Sloane Street was only a good ten minutes. Upon pulling in front of number one-seventy-three, the men hopped out, tossing some fare to the cabbie distractedly. Rapping smartly on the front door, Holmes' eyes swept around the stoop and patches of grass constituting a yard, and he smirked lightly. Before Watson could ask any more questions, the door swung open and revealed a disheveled maid.

"Can I help you?" she stammered, clinging tightly to the knob on her side. The distress rolled off of her in waves, hitting the duo swiftly.

"Pardon me, miss. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate Dr. Watson. We are here on behalf of Mrs. St. James. Would you…?"

"Who's there?" a male voice rudely called out, causing the maid to jump a foot. Leaden steps heralded the approach of the caller, and suddenly the door was wrenched all the way open. The young girl curtseyed and scuttled away, disappearing in a room down the hallway. In her place now stood a towering man, his blonde hair slicked down and his black eyes cutting through them. "Who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, acting for from Madeline St. James," Holmes grunted, hating to repeat himself. Watson drew himself to his full height, refusing to be intimidated by the bigger man. But the man moved away, ushering them in without posing a threat. Rather he guided them into a decently furnished sitting room adjacent to the entry and bid them sit. He introduced himself as Lawrence St. James, and told them he was the temporary caretaker of the house.

"Where is Madeline?" he asked bluntly, throwing propriety out the window. Another maid, quite a bit older than the last one, and bearing a caddy with teacups, bustled around him. "She has been gone for almost three weeks, battered and broken, and as I am her only family, I am concerned for her."

Holmes shrugged, motioning politely to the maid. "I'm not privy to that information, sir. She has communed with me by letter, asking me to take a closer look at her 'accident'."

Lawrence raised an eyebrow, oblivious to Watson glancing guiltily at his partner. Taking a cup, St. James addressed the woman as Millie and dismissed her abruptly. She cast a miffed look in his direction before disappearing around the corner. Clearing his throat, he turned back to the duo.

"I read in the newspapers that the case was ruled correctly. Have you evidence to the contrary?"

"That is the very reason why I am here, Mr. St. James," confessed Sherlock, almost spitting the man's name out. The tone reverberated in his ears, and he ignored both John's perceptive blink and his own rushing discomfiture. Rising from his chair, he remarked, "The lady requested me to look into all possibilities before letting the matter lie. Tell me, sir, why you are occupying a sick woman's home without her consent or knowledge."

"I wanted to make sure everything is in order. In truth, I am…connected to this place," Lawrence muttered, his eyes fixing onto the mantle behind his "guests". Daguerreotypes of an older couple were set off-center, flanked by two photographs. One was of him, and the other of Madeline and the late Simon. His gaze softened significantly, once it latched onto his brother's image. "I wanted to at least set foot in here once more before she comes back. She's essentially banned me, because of jealousy, I suppose."

_**It doesn't get any lonelier than this…I believe my heart'll break…**_

"Jealousy?" the detective queried, seemingly interested.

"Indeed. She and I have had words in the past, over my brother no less. She accused me of trying to destroy her marriage by taking up his time, but I only wanted to protect Simon and be with him. Our parents died when we were young, and I was used to being the first person in his life. But…"

He swallowed hard, shaking his head.

"…Perhaps it was petty of me to fight back. With Simon now dead, it hardly matters. I keep telling her it is time to set aside the old grudges, but she pushes me away."

_**It doesn't get any lonelier than this, 'cause I'm on this road alone…**_

Holmes tucked a bit of his lip between his teeth, indicating to Watson his irritation. Smoothly the doctor interjected his sympathies, and reiterated the purpose of their visit. Lawrence nodded, never taking his eyes from the pictures. He granted them access to the entire house, with no hindrance from him. Once safely climbing the stairwell, Sherlock let out a deep sigh of relief.

"God bless you, Watson, you've saved us from a dreadfully boring afternoon. I am going to investigate upstairs. Go to the other housemaid straight away, and find the butler. Ask her about Lawrence, and his personal attendant Millie, starting from when they arrived here and invaded the home. Make sure she spares no detail," he half-whispered, leaving the doctor to the task and treading up the last few steps. Turning the handle to the first door to the right, he was greeted with the sight of an office, orderly except for a pile of papers gathered on corner of a desk facing the window. Careening right past the bookshelves and pulling out the chair, he descended on it. Opening all the drawers and noting the ledgers positioned in them, he pulled out one, scanning its contents briefly. He tucked it under his arm, intending to take it back with him.

Turning his attention to the letters, he filtered through them, looking for anything particular. Securing the most recent letter from Lawrence and an older letter from Ruth Bray, he turned on his heel sharply. Millie appeared before him, leaning against the door's frame and watching him intently.

"Oh…" he mumbled, not fond of being caught off-guard under any circumstances. Millie's shook her head, limp brown curls escaping her bonnet.

"Apologies, sir. Just heard a noise and I wondered who was in the Missus' office," she responded, blue eyes narrowing slightly at the thought of Madeline. Schooling his expression carefully and noting this, he shook his head.

"No harm done," he said, tapping his foot lightly against the floorboards. Just as she dropped into a curtsy, she was stopped by Holmes' preemptive hand. "Hold, for a moment, miss. I have a question for you."

"Yes, sir?"

"You can read and write, I presume. I noticed you trying to read the letters I'm holding in my hand upside-down. Will you write down your master's address for me, so I may keep him up-to-date on the case?" he inquired, hoping his ploy would work. After studying him for a long moment, she darted over to the desk and snatched up a fresh piece of paper and pen. Scribbling sounds echoed in his ears briefly, and then the scrap was pressed into his full hands.

"There you are, sir. And if I may be so bold, may I ask where Mrs. St. James is? It would put Law-Mr. St. James' mind at ease," she commented, taking advantage of the moment.

Looking her squarely in the face, Holmes told her, "I know not where she's staying. She wouldn't tell me."

The lie hung in the air as he left her behind in the office, tripping quietly down the stairs. Millie's icy glare pelted him as he went, but he suppressed the urge to comment and instead went on the hunt for Watson. A stifled cry stopped him short in the halls, and he risked a peek around the corner.

Lawrence was inches away from the pictures now, gripping the mantelpiece hard enough to make it splinter. Tears were freely flowing down his face, and his body was wracked with held-in sobs. Breathing hard and heavy through his nose, he blindly pulled out a handkerchief and swiped almost uselessly at his eyes. Once his vision cleared, he spotted Holmes glaring at the floor, and both began to mutter ineffectually at each other.

_**I'm about as lonesome as a poor boy gets, and there's nothin' I can do, 'cause it's dark out here and I can't find you…It doesn't get any lonelier than this…**_

A pregnant pause passed before Lawrence asked, "Do you have any family, Mr. Holmes?"

"One brother," he let slip out, praying silently that Watson would come back that second.

"Just the one person. Then you understand my plight, somewhat. Do you speak with him often?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, and opted to just shrug. The teary man snorted derisively.

"No, then. You should, since he's your last link," he choked, folding the rag in his hands.

'_Mycroft is not my only family, but if this man wants to think that, I shall let it pass…this one time,'_ the detective mused privately.

"Have you any idea what it's like to lose your family, Mr. Holmes? First you watch one parent die slowly, wasting away from some strange illness the doctors can neither identify nor treat. You watch them get swallowed up into the abyss; once he disappears it's the next one's turn. She goes quickly, starving herself, trading her life for a place with her husband. Then you're forced to be raised by your brother, and all the time you wonder if you're going next. Then you begin to think that it would be acceptable to be the next to go, so you can be spared the pain of losing yet another person. Life, however, deals you hands you never expect though, and the next thing you realize is that you're running away from your own brother while he's dying. You just want to escape the curse…Having your parents being ripped away is awful enough, but your brother too? Indescribable. It's horrible to be left with no friend in the world, truly it is."

_**And there's no place I can go, just the dusty corners that the shadows know…Maybe this is as good as it's gonna get, and I'll always be this way…**_

As the other man finished speaking, Sherlock felt his chest tighten with repressed emotion. Behind his cold, collected exterior, he felt warm memories that he'd hidden long ago invade his mind. Finally catching the sound of laboring steps and the thump of a cane against wood, he almost jumped for joy at Watson's return. Grabbing his friend's arm roughly, he bid Lawrence good-bye and nearly caused both of them to tumble out the door and onto the sidewalk.

Ignoring Watson's agape look, Holmes soldiered on, "What have you found out from the maid and butler?"

"Well, they both told me the same things: Lawrence St. James had arrived back in London five days before Madeline's…er, tumble. He has not been to the house since his being ejected on his brother's birthday years ago and generally respects the terms that had been set before him. He barged in to ensure that the household was carrying on well without their mistress, but has exceeded his stay. They both complained of his drinking habits, which leads him to carousing with the maid Millie and to random acts of violence. Those are directed towards chairs and end tables mostly."

"Pity the furniture, then. Other data?"

"Janet, the younger maid, also told me that she saw Millie poking around the house the days before and after the accident. At least she thought she saw her; the woman was there and gone so fast Janet believed she could've been mistaken. In any case, the older maid let herself in four days ago, with her master in tow, and they've been there ever since," Watson concluded. Holmes didn't even crack a smirk, or announce how the facts were lining up exactly as he thought they would. "Holmes?"

"I thank you for your time, doctor," was the curt response from Sherlock. Tugging at his collar, he croaked, "I must admit, the air in that home was absolutely stifling. I believe I could do with a brisk walk through the City."

John hurried along, trying to keep up with his friend's fevered gait. "Have you any need for further assistance?"

Holmes had his eyes trained on the building-clad horizon, and his mind was on a different plane entirely. He remembered a house not too far from there…he could see a family, the parents posing beside the hearth in the study, and two boys cavorting through the building…and then darkness clouded over the children's eyes as they sat together, heads bowed and hearts hammering…each unable to comfort the other, each lost in themselves.

_**I'm sick and tired of walkin' round like this, with my heart outside my skin…It doesn't get any lonelier than this…**_

The emptiness in Holmes face was beginning to worry his friend. Gripping his shoulder and causing Sherlock to pivot on his heel, Watson saw him descending back to earth. The detective stuffed the letters into the ledger under his arm, and ran his now freed hand through his hair.

"Dreadfully sorry, old boy, I was distracted briefly. If you'd like, you may accompany me to the carriage office by Hither Green in Lewisham."

Mollified for the moment, Watson pondered, "Should we not look at a nearer carriage office to find her assailant?"

"We would, if he had come from this area. However, the mud sample I lifted from Madeline's dress indicates that, although a cab can go almost anywhere in the City, that its primary travel circuit is indeed in Lewisham. When she bounced along underneath the Landau, she knocked enough loose for me to easily identify the largest donor. The color and consistency of the dirt is equivocal of the substance in that area of London," Holmes murmured, flagging down another cab.

"So the quasi-murderer hired someone away from the area to avoid suspicion," Watson thought aloud, pulling out his notebook and jotting down a few lines. "The person knew they would be too easily caught if they'd searched for someone around here, and if someone clever was on his trail."

"Quite so. And that is where Mr. Lawrence St. James's currently abandoned residence is as well. The Hither Green office is the closest one to his house."

Holmes drew out the address Millie had written for him and handed it to John, allowing him to examine it before a carriage eventually slowed to a stop in front of them.

Boarding the hansom cab, the doctor continued, "It seems to me that Mr. St. James is drawing the noose around his own neck with this."

Flopping down beside his partner, the detective clicked his tongue in a denial. What he said next jarred Watson far more than the rocking cab ever could.

"I am not convinced of anything at all. The evidence required to complete this investigation is still to be obtained, and-"

"Yes, I know, facts to suit theories, and so on," John crooned, stopping his companion's blather dead in its tracks. "But he has a large stack of accusations up against him: public drunkenness, breaking and entering, and harassment for starters. Whatever 'facts' you find, they better be sound, or the police will simply throw this case away."

"I know that," Holmes replied, settling the leather-bound book in his lap and flipping through the pages again. "The confidence you show for me is overwhelming."

The doctor crossed his arms, pretending to be miffed. "No need to be facetious, I was merely being realistic. One of us needs to be."

The other man smiled wryly. "And for that, I say again, 'God bless you, Watson'."

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**Author's note:** So this is relatively shorter than last week's, but it's nice to have little ones here and there. The evidence is building…hope you guys had a great week, glad you read this chapter, please review, and I'll see you guys next time (Madeline's taking a bit of a break for the next couple of chapters, but she'll be back soon)!


	7. Private Investigations

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "Private Investigations" by Dire Straits(in bold).

* * *

Arriving in Lewisham twenty minutes later, the team went to work. They parted ways, with Watson going into the main offices of Hither Green and Holmes slipping into the stables beyond. The yard was quiet, with only two drivers tending to their cabs and horses before setting off for work. One carriage was untouched, sitting in its stall and gathering dust.

Gripping a passing mechanic's arm, Sherlock asked, "Whose cab is that, in the corner?"

The bloke shrugged. "Not sure, sir. I just come along whenever one needs fixing; I don't know names. I will say this though- that one's been rotting in the back for a couple weeks now. Driver musta up and quit, and only after payin' me half of what he owes me."

Letting him go, the detective scanned the dirt and the surrounding stalls for clues before heading back for the Landau.

'_Seat brought forward, meaning driver is of shorter stature…patch of ragged material caught on the edges of driver's seat. Obviously has not had this vehicle polished and mended in a long while…hmm,'_ he observed, laying on his stomach and glancing at the undercarriage. A bit of cloth was twisted into a joint, and on removal Sherlock realized it was a scrap ripped off of Madeline's dress. This was definitely the right coach. _'Wonderful.'_

Slipping up to the main building, Holmes darted through the back door, and banged right into his partner.

"…And as you can see, Mr. Watson, we run a tight ship here in the office," the manager, Arthur Davis, concluded the tour. Watson had been posing (per Holmes' plan) as an auditor, asking for any information on the firm's practices within the last three weeks. The single-story building was squat and low, divided into four rooms with no doors save for the front and back. The walls were whitewashed and incredibly tidy; Mr. Davis, being a retired naval officer, had to keep it that way. The stables were settled behind the offices, he told them, and he employed upwards of twenty drivers. "We've been very successful this year, so I was able to take on a few more drivers four months ago."

"Yes, yes…I thank you for showing my friend this fine establishment, but what I really wish to see are your records. It is imperative to the inspection," Holmes cut, his eyes running over the hallway that led to the counting office and the two young men tallying papers within.

"My partner, Mr. Holmes," Watson introduced formally, allowing the men a moment to shake hands.

"I've taken the liberty of observing the goings-on in your stables, and things appear to be satisfactory. Now, we need employee names, past auditing reports, and the like to complete the survey."

_**It's a mystery to me…the game commences for the usual fee…confidential information…**_

Davis motioned them towards the front. "Right, right…can't deny you that, sir. You'll find everything you need in the main room in the farther cabinet to the left."

Inclining his head in thanks, Holmes dashed away and flung open the cabinet while Davis excused himself to see to other matters. The detective perused the accounts and log books he found, pointing to names every so often and indicating that Watson should record them in his notebook. Once the remaining souls in the office had exited the building as well, Holmes dropped his guise of busy perusal and tore away to the counting room. He left his companion momentarily flabbergasted.

"Holmes, what on earth…?"

_**I go checking out the reports…digging up the dirt…**_

"Those are just generally accounts you are handling, my friend. I need to see repair costs, accident reports…and the one place they would keep those is in this office," he responded, scanning the ledgers within the accountant's desk quickly and pulling one out from the middle. "Here we are, the expenditures for the last month."

Watson tramped down the hall towards his compatriot. "Would Mrs. St. James have damaged the carriage much when she was trampled?"

After a moment's silence, Sherlock tapped his finger against a recording in success.

"Enough to fracture the elliptic springs on the front and back left-side wheels, as with what happened to this one that was brought in only one day after the accident. What does this tell you, Watson?"

Thinking on his feet, the doctor replied, "That the coach had to have been one of the older ones for her to have snapped the springs that easily."

Holmes grinned. "Precisely. And therefore it was under the care of one of the elder workers here. He's also one of the poorest working here."

"What makes you say that?"

"Carriage drivers, old chap, are responsible for the wear and tear of the coach assigned to them. Ergo, if it gets damaged, the driver has to pay for the repairs out of his own pocket. However, as it is indicated here, Stall Number Fourteen's driver has had to extend the payment date on the spring's repairs until approximately four days after it was fixed. The fresh parts on the abandoned Landau in that same stall illustrates how worn down it is as a whole. He had to scrounge up the money somehow, until he could be paid off for his part in the twisted murder plot. It appears that this same man was unable to pay off the mechanic I met earlier, most likely because he is gone to ground. According to the pay dates on the wall, he had his funds advanced."

He inclined his head towards the papers tacked up beyond Watson's head. The other man spun on his heel, examining the figures closely before letting out a low whistle. Given that the chap was making around £23 a year, he was pulling his money out too rapidly.

"His bills must be so much that he couldn't have afforded the repairs for his carriage unless he knew for certain he'd be refunded for the accident, and now he cannot pay because he thinks he will be caught," Holmes commented lightly, his lips pulled down into a frown briefly. "And so here we have our first concrete suspect."

Leaning closer, John tsked under his breath. "Unfortunately, it appears that the employee in question has had his name scratched out. There goes your concrete suspect."

The detective shrugged. "That's easily rectified."

"Going to the employment records again, are you?"

Before Sherlock could answer, the front door banged open. Sneaking around the corner, the duo looked on, unseen by the intruder. A shorter man decked out in clothes that were more patches than original material rushed at the cabinet in the main room and began sifting through the files. His ruddy face sported reddish stubble and his eyes were practically covered by a tweed cap. A tarnished Albert chain drooped out of his pocket. Upon finding the file he needed, the man pulled out a handful of matches and prepared to burn the papers.

"You see, Watson? Easily rectified," Holmes murmured, stepping out from their hiding spot. "Excuse me!"

The red-faced man let out a shriek of shock. Once he regained his breath, he snatched up his folder and ran back the way he came from. Groaning, Holmes immediately gave chase and sprinted after the mysterious stranger. Watson was stranded for a moment in the empty building, huffing in displeasure.

"We can never avoid this, can we?"

**xXxXxXx**

Five alleyways and six main roads later, the pursuit continued. Sherlock had dodged innumerable pedestrians, several cabs, and at one point ran straight through the first floor of somebody's home. Maids and footmen yelped at the rush of men parading across the house, linens and silver decorating the floors as they passed out the kitchen door and jumped a low fence. The man that managed to stay just ahead of him was beginning to finally lose wind, his steps lagging slightly as he rounded another bend.

'_Time to think of a plan…right, first point: snatch up apple from vendor twenty-five feet ahead,'_ the detective thought, following through on the idea. _'Second point: dodge overturned crates, gain approximately three feet of ground.'_

Choosing to execute a massive leap, Holmes easily hurtled the wooden boxes and got a little closer to the runner. His grip tightened on the apple as he pumped his arms in time with his legs.

'_Third: wait until man prepares to turn for the next alleyway, then aim for head and throw projectile at precisely three feet in front of him. Make contact in three seconds.'_

The job was done easily, the fruit's meat splattering everywhere and felling the man instantly.

'_Unfocused, he will flounder on the ground for ten seconds. Descend upon him immediately. Escape: doubtful.'_

Pulling the man back onto his feet by his frayed lapels, Holmes pushed his back up against the nearest wall.

_**You get to meet all sorts in this line of work…**_

"Who are you?"

The man coughed and wheezed, nodding his head frantically. "Albert Courdray!"

"Why were you trying to burn that file?" Sherlock asked, jerking his head in the direction of the papers littering the cobblestones. He suspected that he already knew the answer, but a suspicion was not evidence. He needed a straightforward confession.

"I didn't want to be found! I knew the police were after me for hurting that woman!" Albert cried, struggling against Holmes' iron grip. "I thought I could leave work, disappear, take my family and run…Who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes. I represent the woman you tried to kill," was the response. Releasing one lapel to point a finger in his face, Holmes grunted, "Explain yourself. Now."

Courdray shook his head in assent. "I will, I will. Sir, you have to understand: I'm not proud of what I did. I was desperate…I have my wife and three kids to feed. Me wife's been ill for months, and not able to work. My girl and two boys are too young to even be in school yet, sir. I've been doing without; letting my uniform go to seed, patching up my cab meself, just so the extra money can go towards food and such. My father was a gambler, and left all his debts to me when he died, and so I have to pay for those, too. We've extended rent for over three months."

"Yes, it appears that you are suffering heavily," Holmes croaked, eyes flicking over the man's clothing again. "How did you come to the act of attempted homicide?"

"I'll tell ye. So I'm down on me luck, finishing rounds and putting the cab away about midnight a month ago, when I am approached by this lad. I think it was a lad; he sounded quite a bit younger than me at least, he hid his face underneath his tall hat," Albert trailed off. The detective shook him to return his attention to the present.

"Go on."

"Right. So this fellow grabs me arm, scares the living daylights out of me and nearly getting clobbered. He says he needs me to do a special job, that only I can do. I asks him how he knows I'll do it. 'Yer desperate,' he says. 'You need the money. Simple as that.' He got me there, but I still was sketchy about it. I asked what the job was. He handed me a photograph of a woman, told me to study her face 'til it was stuck in me mind. Decent-looking woman, it seemed...the face was the important part to remember. 'What d'you want me to do about her? Give her a ride somewhere?' I asked. 'No. I want you to kill her,' he says. At first I refused, but then he started mentioning my family, my children, and how they needed more than the scraps I'd been throwing at 'em. Those words cut me deep. I couldn't let me kids go hungry…I couldn't let them live this bad anymore."

_**Treachery and treason …there's always an excuse for it…and when I find the reason I still can't get used to it…**_

"Then he completed the job by threatening to find me family and harm them if I didn't do as he asked, or if I tried to turn him in. So I agree, and after a week of that woman's image haunting my dreams…I do the job. And the day afterward, I find the money sitting in my broken cab. Almost a hundred pounds, sir! Even after paying me debts, it was enough to get me family to a new place, away from strange people requesting dirty deeds in the middle of the night. After pocketing the money, I brought the cab in, and told the mechanic to fix it. We haggled over payment until I gave him half of me wages to start and the rest to be paid at a later time...and then I left. Haven't been to work since. I've been moving me family out to Liverpool," Courdray finished in a rush. "Getting rid of those files was the last piece of the puzzle."

"You never saw the man's face…how tall was he?" questioned Holmes, forcing Courdray to look him in the eye.

After hemming and hawing, Albert squaked, "Around my height actually. Five feet-six inches, five-foot-seven, thereabouts."

"Anything else about him come to mind? Did his clothes fit him?"

"They seemed a bit baggy, but they were fine clothes, I remember that. I assumed it was a lad who got spurned by the lady. I didn't care much to find out," the ex-driver went on. That earned him a harsh glare from the detective.

"Of course, it hardly mattered that you tried to murder a woman you never knew," he grumbled, throwing him to the ground. Ready to deal him a hard kick to the stomach, Sherlock caught sight of Watson, leaning casually against some nearby barrels. He paused, and then simply picked up the file instead of acting rashly. "Here's the driver the police are searching for."

"Indeed," John muttered, having heard the whole story and quickly recording it as evidence. Casting sympathetic eyes towards Albert, he wondered, "Shall we turn him in?"

Holmes was torn between two decisions. One, he could simply hand him over to Lestrade, and deprive a struggling wife and starving children of their provider for years, assuming he didn't get the noose or transportation as a sentence. Or he could let him go, make sure he never returned to London again and become a memory that would fade into the fog of the damp city nights. Then he would carry the guilt of not apprehending the tool that had been turned to destroy Madeline.

_**Scarred for life…no compensation…private investigations…**_

"Get out of my sight," he remarked, hauling the accomplice onto his feet once more. "I never want to hear, see, or smell you in this city again, sir. You can bear the burden that you were almost a murderer for the rest of your life."

Surprised, Courdray could only stare back for a moment. "What?"

"Begone!" Holmes growled, hooking his thumb behind him. "Leave, before I change my mind!"

Seconds later, Courdray was a dot in the distance, running his heart out. John felt deep down that Holmes could never stoop to condemn a man who was only a diversion. Albert had no idea that he was being used until it was almost too late. But he also knew that it would gnaw at his friend's mind that he'd let the man go without a fight. Latching his blue eyes onto his friend's dark brown ones, they mutually cleared their throats.

"If anyone ever asks-" the consulting detective started.

"He outran you," the doctor finished for him. Turning to walk back onto the street, he continued, "What will you tell Madeline?"

Taking a deep breath, Holmes just lolled his head to the side.

"The truth. He's not her real assailant; he was just part of a grander plan. The real criminal is still waiting to be captured."

* * *

**Author's note:** Last Friday I got "Sherlock Holmes" for my birthday…and I squealed with joy! Ah, this has been a great week…oh, and the pound-payment was a rough estimate pulled off of a website that listed a couple of annual payments for servants in the 1800's. And everything is starting to come together now…Alright, it's really late and I need to get some sleep, so I'm glad you read this, PLEASE REVIEW, and I'll be seeing you guys again in about a week. Sayonara!


	8. Pity the Child

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Warning:** Mentions of drug use in this chapter, and dysfunctional family delusions.

**Song lyrics:** "Pity the Child" from the musical _Chess _(in bold).

* * *

May 30th, 1891

Two days later, and the case had not progressed past letting the driver flee. Unfortunately for Watson and Holmes, Lawrence St. James had moved back into his abandoned home and barred any examination from being held there. And so they were forced to withdraw to Baker Street, and come up with a plan. It was ridiculous to let something so trivial get in his way, but the detective knew it couldn't be helped…for now.

Holmes paced the floorboards, pipe clenched between his teeth. Watson had occupied the easy chair, relaxing after yet another check-up with Madeline. The patient had graduated to short hobbles on a crutch, a vast improvement compared to being bedridden. She in turn was on the padded windowsill, watching the passersby go about their business beyond the glass, and the wooden crutch propped on the wall beside her.

"What we need is a diversion. Something has to draw him out of the house for at most an hour. I am certain that the remaining evidence for conviction is hidden within the building," he muttered, clenching his hands behind his back. Expecting some sort of suggestion or retort, he glanced at the shrugging doctor, and then half turned towards the woman seated on the window seat.

Madeline just glared at him, refusing to speak. To say the least, she was less than happy when Sherlock revealed that he'd let Courdray go. She decided that boycotting conversation with him was the route for her to travel. A straight forty-eight hours went by with her speaking to Mrs. Hudson, to Watson, and even to the dog, but not to him. She was denying his very existence, and for some inexplicable reason, it was maddening. Not that he'd ever, ever admit it, of course. To think there was a time that he wished he could shut her up, but at that moment he would have preferred to hear her talk directly to him.

"Still on that, then?" he remarked, leaning against the mantle in mock boredom. Deducing that it was the right moment to ruffle some feathers, he continued, "Women and their emotions…"

Some feathers were ruffled indeed; it seemed in fact that all of her plumage was flared up. She narrowed her eyes in disgust, the green in them turning a sickly color.

"Oh, the…right!" Watson suddenly shouted, jumping out of his seat and running out the door. Hell's fury was about to rivaled in mere seconds, and he had no wish to be caught in the crossfire. "Coming, Mrs. Hudson!"

"How DARE you insinuate that I'm merely being emotional?!" she yelped, pointing a finger at the leftover man. Holmes only blinked, and was completely calm in the face of her rage.

"Well, you _are_ being overly excited at the moment, my dear lady."

Madeline scoffed, "Excuse me, Sherlock, but how can you expect me to approve of what you did?!"

"I never do anything without a purpose, Mrs. St. James. If I'd taken him in, four other innocent lives would've been lost as well as his," Sherlock explained yet again. The repetitive force-feeding of the same story over and over was grating, even on his nerves.

"He could've been lying about his family situation!"

He groaned in exasperation, "For the love of God, woman, I know what I'm doing! Stop being so infuriating!"

Jerking back from the force of his words, her head bounced off the windowpane. Hissing from the pain, Madeline pressed the heel of her good hand to her head. A moment's silence passed between them, and they purposefully ignored the argument to move on. Not that Madeline wanted that at all; on the contrary, she wanted to fight him on it.

A part of her, the part that was the disciplined little girl she used to be, was reprimanding her for arguing with a man. It wasn't her place to do so…not even if she felt that it was wrong. But the larger part, the one that had been unfettered by her accident and was always in her heart, refused to let the matter drop without a struggle. Once she had been removed from her old life through broken limbs and lost blood, she saw no reason why she should let the problems in her life just go unattended any longer.

'_Look where that led me,'_ she thought to herself, pivoting her body so that she wouldn't have to look at him anymore. Her mind wandered, and she missed Watson's return and the eventual squabble the two men had. Home was just past the glass, down the streets, and hopefully devoid of her brother-in-law.

'_How could they let that man get away? '_

"I do not have to stay here and have my objectives questioned, especially by the two of you!" Holmes' crowing cut through her brain's fog. Glancing over her shoulder, she watched as the detective hastily threw off his smoking jacket and picked up an overcoat.

John rolled his eyes. "Come now, old chap, you don't have to…"

"No. This egregious hostility is entirely unbecoming. I am beginning to suspect the weight of current events is too much for your minds, and so I'll excuse this rash behavior. By the time you both have recovered from your lapses in judgment pertaining to me, I shall be back," Sherlock countered, clapping a hat upon his head and dashing out the door. The door slammed heavily behind him, causing the duo remaining to jump at the noise. For the first time that afternoon, Madeline felt the slide of guilt glaze over her stomach.

"He'll return soon?" she asked, her voice wavering uncertainly. Watson's shoulders drooped, his lips turning down at the corners.

"Unlikely. I wouldn't expect him back for perhaps a day or so," he muttered, settling down in the chair again. "I hardly challenge him on his methods, but then again he has more to consider than his own ideas when a client is this close to a case and so I must interfere. It's not a common enough occurrence for him to do so."

"How do you mean?"

"Generally someone comes to Holmes with a problem, they tell him the story, and they go. He sees them once more when he collects his payment, but that is the extent of his interaction with clients. To have someone here for the entire process, to have their feelings on display all the while tends to be a tad…unsettling for him. He has to maintain that cold, calculating persona…he has to have distance between you and him. No matter if you're living with him briefly or not."

She digested the thought, but turned her own observations onto John.

"There is no distance between us. There never will be."

'_We're of one blood now…'_

The doctor closed his eyes. "Exactly. And he's well aware of that fact. My intrusion has not improved his disposition, either. He doesn't like it when I pose theories about whether he does things right or not. So for now he needs a literal space away from us, and he is welcome to it."

Madeline's gaze remained glued on the door sealing the rooms off from the rest of the house.

"I see," she said, biting her lip briefly. Gladstone waddled out from his hiding spot underneath the bed and trotted over to the pair, oblivious to the mutual feelings of regret roiling inside them. Bending down to pet the dog, Watson let out a deep sigh and gathered up his coat and bag minutes later.

"Right…same time next week, then," he said, attempting to lighten the mood of his patient. He succeeded slightly; Madeline allowed her inner conflict to melt a bit and crack a smile.

"Very well. Good day, doctor."

With a tight grin, he tipped his hat to her, and exited the room, leaving her alone yet again.

Thereafter the afternoon drifted into evening, and then straight on until night. Madeline puttered around the rooms, adjusting to the crutch. She could find nothing better to do, or at least she couldn't find something to totally distract her from the day's escapade. It was dreary, spending all that time with only anger and guilt as companions, but somehow the clock hands went around and it was time to get some sleep. Sherlock, like Watson had predicted, had not returned by then, and after finding herself staring at the same old books and the same old dog and the same old picture of that same woman on the cluttered table (very beautiful, she thought her to be), she decided that it would just be better to go on to bed without waiting up. Silently she went through the routine Mrs. Hudson assisted her with, donning a nightgown and brushing her teeth, before collapsing on the mattress.

"Holmes has to be out of his mind if he expected me to be ecstatic about his decision," Madeline said to Gladstone as he somehow clambered onto the bed beside her. Scratching between his ears, she snorted. "And I must be mad if I'm speaking to a dog about this. Well, at least I have you on my side in case he comes back in a miserable state, right?"

The bulldog just rested his jowls on her bandaged leg, and snored away. She sighed and leaned back against the pillows; there was her answer, she supposed. The candle by her bedside blurred, and she wasn't even aware that she was dozing until the booming crash from the adjoining room woke her up at midnight. Sitting bolt upright, her heart hammered in her chest. Was she found out, and her enemies had come to finish the job? Had she woken up in the midst of a robbery?

**xXxXxXx**

Sherlock, shockingly, had traversed the black streets of London to his home, rather than spend it in one of the rundown hovels he leased a time or two. His day, spent alternately staking out Lawrence's home and wandering up and down Sloane Street, was somewhat productive. He just had to get out of that house. Nothing ever really bothered him much, save for not knowing the right avenue to pursue on a case. This singular event was irksome, for sure.

'_She has to understand that it was better for all parties involved. Dooming him would've been wrong,'_ he thought more than once that afternoon. He stopped by a lamppost, pounding his fist against it in aggravation. _'Infernal woman. Ridiculous case!'_

One hour turned to two, and two turned to seven before Holmes realized that the sun had set. With night upon him, and his mind on haywire, he snuck back into the Baker Street house through the top window. Avoiding the mess in the dark, he removed the box which held his needle and other concoctions. He felt, as he began loading the syringe with a little bit of everything, that the only solution to his predicament was to take his consciousness out of it entirely.

'_Perhaps it'll give me a new perspective…Although the last time I did this during a case, I came to while hanging from the ceiling and Watson complaining that I claimed to be a monkey. It would be interesting to see what will happen this time.'_

Throwing caution to the wind, he indulged his addiction and waited for the effects to take hold.

Minutes later, his vision expanded and contracted, the room's contents floating around him. His heartbeat sped up, and euphoria spread through his veins. It was like he was back in his childhood home, occupying his time however he wanted. Feeling younger, swifter, more agile, he began cavorting around the room, tipping the couch he'd been calling his bed for weeks over and giggling.

_**Up in my room, I planned my conquests on my own, never asked for a helping hand…No one would understand…**_

That is, until the harsh shouts of a household in crisis rang in his ears. A pounding on the door, which in the back of his mind he knew was really the pounding of the blood in his head, caused him to knock over a chair.

_**I never asked the pair who fought below, just in case they said no…**_

"Hush, you unreasonable chair!" grumbled his grainy voice, reflecting that of a man on the edge. To the panels, he murmured, "Get away, away I say!"

**xXxXxXx**

"Holmes," Madeline muttered, rubbing her eyes and breathing a bit easier when she acknowledged his voice. More squawks of protests and hushes were directed at the chair, along with ramblings about "he said I couldn't" and "she is awful", and it piqued her interest significantly. Using a hairpin, she pinned up the skirt of her nightgown to allow her more movement before grabbing her crutch. Slowly but surely she padded through the darkness, encouraged by the low gaslight shining through the cracks of the folding partition to pursue this line of inquiry.

When she stretched her hand out to pull the panels back, they suddenly were whisked out of her grip. Sherlock stood there, looking the complete definition of a wreck. His face was flushed and sweaty, his dark eyes darting all around and unfocused. His suspenders were halfway unclipped, resting against the backs of his trouser legs, and his shirt was completely undone. A rank odor, mixing sweat and mud, floated off of him.

"Oh, you!" he cried upon seeing her, sounding exuberant at the sight of her. "I knew it was you!"

'_Who else would it be at this time of night?'_ she thought sarcastically, but kept her mouth shut.

"For a moment, I thought you were her, or him, and I would've had to hide," he said, rushing towards the back wall and leaning against it. Glancing around, Madeline wondered at his spurt of madness. "They're always angry now. I'm used to it, though."

_**Pity the child who has ambition, knows what he wants to do, knows that he'll never fit the system others expect him to…**_

"Who are they?" she asked, clomping a little closer. The room was bare, save for a few tables, a box and a chair or two. Her crutch smacked an empty syringe and caused it to skitter underneath an overturned couch. Groaning, she reflected, _'Well, now I know the answer as to why he's like this…his addiction decided to act up again.'_

"What do you mean 'who are they'? You had to have seen them on the way into the house," he said, clicking his tongue at her ignorance. "I'm surprised you managed to get by them, they always know whose doing what. As do I. I know a lot about people just by looking at clothes and faces. Just like I know a lot about them. She says it's a gift, but he calls it impractical."

She shook her head. "I'm sorry, I have no notion of whom you're talking about."

"Chuh! Mother and Father! They live here…well, Papa threatens to go, since he and Mum always fight."

_**Pity the child who knew his parents…saw their faults, saw their love die before his eyes…pity the child that wise…**_

A cold slab of dread pressed against her stomach, and she swallowed hard on the dryness accumulating in her throat. Rapidly Holmes dropped into a chair, shushing her when she asked what was wrong. His dark eyes turned black as he directed them towards the shadows. They latched onto the other doorway out of the rooms, as if someone was coming through them.

_A shadowy man from the past, the father who he did not know was dead or alive, pointed at him. Sherlock could see the bag in his hand, the shock of black hair, the ice-blue of the parent's cold eyes. The weak chin drooped, and he opened his mouth to speak._

"Papa is leaving for good. Mum has thrown his belongings out the window. Papa calls me strange, unnatural…because I see things he can't. He says Mycroft is better off away, just like him," he whispered almost casually, though his expression was one of illness. "'Tis better this way."

_**When I was twelve my father moved out…left with a whimper, not with a shout. I didn't miss him; he made it perfectly clear I was a fool…**_

_A woman of slight stature and golden hair appeared next, her careworn face creased with anxiety. Her eyes, rather than streaming with tears, were pouring out blood. Her jaw was forever contorted, opened wide for the fires of her life to flood out. _

All feelings of fury were long forgotten as Madeline crossed over to him. Glancing at the shut door, she blinked in confusion.

"Holmes, you're dreaming…no one's there."

Snatching her arm, he began to shake while continuing calmly, "Can you not see? She's letting someone else into the house, and she doesn't tell me who, but I know he's evil. He's after my mother's settlement. He shuts me away…and the cycle repeats."

_**She made her move the moment he crawled away; I was the last the woman told…someone moved in, I shut my door…someone to treat her just the same way as before.**_

"You're hallucinating, it's just you and me here," the woman who actually sat beside him said in a placating tone, patting his shoulder as comfortingly as she could. He jerked back in his chair, wrestling with some unseen force briefly.

_The mother clawed him, butchered him with words of rage, and the mysterious man, whose face remained hidden, stood stolidly in the background. Her black eyes bled more, spilling drops of blood onto the floor._

"Mum calls me a liar, says she hates me and my jealousy. I don't want to see her hurt…she doubts me, doubts my intentions," he gurgled, the stark contrast between his voice and body evident. He went rigid as the image of his mother melted into the boards at his feet, and then lucidly collapsed after her.

"Sherlock!" cut in Madeline, dropping down with some difficulty to his level. Holmes' body began to convulse, all the while he kept talking.

"Must get out…I can live on my skills without her…she'll never see me…never again…won't go back…"

_**I took the road of least resistance…I had the skill, and more, the hunger…easy to get away…pity the child with no such weapons: no defense, no escape from the ties that bind…I never called to tell her all I'd done...**_

Given her father's own sordid difficulties with addictions, Madeline thought she would've been more prepared for an occurrence such as this. Still, it wasn't the drugs that caused the parent to shake and hallucinate, rather it was the alcohol. Going by what little she knew, the young lady hovering at Holmes' side laid her hand upon his brow. Feeling his burning skin beneath her fingertips, she decided it would be best to find him some cold water. At first, when she retrieved the pitcher on the washstand and pushed it across the length of the floor, she was going to dab him with a wet cloth. But she was desperate to stop Sherlock's ramblings, his shaking, and so she dumped all of the cool liquid onto his face.

The shock of the water splashing caused him to flop around gracelessly for another minute or two before he finally rested face-down on the floorboards. Grabbing his shirtsleeve, Madeline rolled him onto his side to make sure he was breathing. His chest rose and fell sharply, and his gaze raked over her. The insanity that had clouded it over was dissipating, and she fell back against the floor herself, wilting with relief.

"Thank God," she sputtered, a creaking on the stairs catching her attention. A soft knock on the door thundered in her ears.

"Is everything alright? I heard some thumping up here," Mrs. Hudson queried sleepily, waiting beyond the portal. Propping herself on her elbows, Madeline chuckled a bit to cover Holmes' wounded grunts.

"Aye, I just fell out of bed, but I'm alright. Good night!"

Crossing her fingers for luck, she was grateful that the housekeeper didn't give the tone of her voice or the direction it come from a second thought as she trod back to her own rooms. All was quiet again in 221B. It gave St. James some time to think, to process all that had happened.

She would've had to be blind and dumb to not see that she had triggered this reaction. With complications from the case compiling with her questioning of his motives, it made him snap when he turned to his normal respite, cocaine. He must have turned to the substance out of frustration, and it only landed him into more trouble. The parallels that he drew between the current situation and now were obvious to her. Perhaps the rejection from his mother was what caused him to keep only acquaintances with clients, with women. If they got too close, they could rebuke his ideas, and turn away if things didn't seem as they appear.

'_And shrieking doubts in his face while he's trying to figure out the solution to your problem doesn't help,'_ her brain chided in a sing-song voice. Smashing the shame down long enough to salvage a pillow and blanket from the bed, Madeline helped the now-snoozing consulting detective get more comfortable. Once his head was propped and his body covered, she turned to creep back to bed.

_**Pity the child but not forever, not if he stays that way…Pity instead the careless mother…And I wonder does she know?**_

Pausing on her way, words spilled out from her lips into the darkness.

"Please understand, I will never agree with this action of yours. Some of it was, I suppose I could concede, decent…to some extent. But how would you take the news that one of the people responsible for nearly killing you was able to slip away, allowed to go by someone who you…trusted?" she said, compelled to explain herself. A snore was the response. "You wouldn't be too pleased, either, I wager. I can't forgive him for what he's done. It's not the 'why' I am concerned with, but just the fact that he got away. Your methods are your own, I respect that, but I can't let it go."

His leg twitched, but that was all he did. Straightening herself out, she coughed momentarily.

"I know it sounds like I'm contradicting myself, and that it's insane to apologize for it when the person you're directing the apology to is unconscious, but I am sorry. And for what it's worth…the hell you've gone through is not something…that your friends will ever put you through again."

Bidding him good-night, she managed to get back to the main bed and descend into a deep slumber, totally unaware that the doped man on the floor maneuvered his body to face the direction she'd gone. Having borne her speech in silence, Sherlock incoherently pondered the words until his eyelids drifted shut.

New perspective indeed.

* * *

**Author's note:** I've wanted to write this chapter for a long time, let me tell you. I think Sherlock Holmes has "mommy issues", and that's why he's so discourteous to women in general. According to the research I've done, cocaine can make you hallucinate, and I figured that in his hallucinations, Holmes might see memories of his home life he's repressed for years since this case deals with an incredibly dysfunctional family. Thanks for reading again, review and all that, see you guys later!

And as for the "ceiling monkey" episode Holmes had? Check out my one-shot, "Regression". It expands on that instance infinitely.


	9. Truth Hides

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "Truth Hides" by Asian Dub Foundation (in bold).

* * *

May 31st, 1891

The clocks in the nearby house chimed three times, the hour of reckoning.

Or at least the hour in which Lawrence St. James' home would be vacated. Sherlock loitered through the square beyond the house disguised as a dustman, ignoring and being ignored by the other people milling about. Leaning casually against the brick wall surrounding the lot of Lewisham housing, he kept his eyes riveted on Lawrence's door and reviewed the plan once more in his head.

After much deliberation with his partner and client, they reached an agreement upon a plan that morning. Madeline was to pen two notes, one which would be sent off as a telegram and the other hand-delivered. The first would beg Lawrence to meet her for afternoon tea at Claridge's promptly at 3:15. Millie would be asked to come along as well as a chaperone. Watson would be there, waiting in the shadows until 3:45 or when the brother-in-law decided to let his impatience to get the better of him. Then the doctor would exchange the second note, lamenting her inability to meet him as originally planned. John would further delay him with an update on the case and a second interview with Lawrence.

"_An hour's time is all I need," Holmes murmured, applying a false beard and gray hair grease to his scalp. Watson had gone ahead to send off the telegram, and to wait for the brother-in-law to arrive at the hotel with the other letter._

"_For what?" Madeline asked curiously, hobbling over to watch him apply the makeup. It was a fascinating process, seeing him transform into somebody unrecognizable._

_A few moments passed as he exchanged his clean jacket with a tattered and coal-stained one. Upon further reflection, he rubbed the dirty cloth against his face._

"_For investigating the premises while the pair is out."_

_Intending to leave the conversation where it was, he barely paused on his way out to listen to her snickering._

"_And what, my good lady, is so amusing?" Holmes questioned, turning back to her._

_She shook her head, her lips clenched between her teeth to hold back chuckles._

"_I implore you, what is so funny?"_

_The giggles tore out of her completely, and were her only feasible response. Grunting in annoyance, he surveyed himself in a nearby mirror. His eyes shut in mortification at what he saw in the glass. One of his many scarves was hanging out of his trousers like a multicolored tail, swinging to and fro as he twisted to get a better look at it. Altogether, the dusty disguise would have been perfect, were it not for the decorative sash._

"_You…you see now, Mr. Holmes?" Madeline chortled, expelling the devastating events of last night and the serious conspiring of the morning from her mind through laughter. Most likely it was her way of coping with all the circumstances. _

_Pulling the sash out and determinedly tying it around his neck, Sherlock shook his head and barely concealed a smirk at his own foolish appearance._

And so they glossed over the severity of the situation with hilarity. It was good to see his friend in high spirits, even if he'd made a complete idiot out of himself…for the second time within the space of ten hours.

'_It's odd, to think of her thusly instead of as a simple client'_ he thought, crossing his arms over his chest. With last night's events blotching his mind, he remembered her oath and how she declared none of his friends would let him be destroyed again. With opened eyes and an expanded mind, he did understand that somehow they'd reached the realm of companionship. Were he a gambling man, he would wager that the event that specifically caused them to bridge the gap between acquaintance and more-than was…he didn't know, to be honest. Yes, they were bonded in blood literally weeks ago, but the other bond could not have occurred then. No doubt they'd spent a good deal of time off-case together, and not all of it was wasteful. She was no Oxford scholar, but to call her stupid would be far off the mark as well; her company wasn't entirely unsatisfactory, despite her little disagreements with him.

'_Well, perhaps it is a good occurrence, then. Watson's so insistent upon me socializing, and she's not the worst candidate for such a thing,'_ he mused, crouching down as the front door of Lawrence's house flew open. The burly fellow clutched a walking stick in his left hand, and a few banknotes were clenched in his right. A bowler was angled rakishly on his head, and his face was creased with concern. The maid followed quickly behind him after locking the door, her black dress and white bonnet both looking disheveled. Her piercing eyes raked the street avidly before she climbed behind her master into the carriage he'd hailed. The two appeared to be speaking heatedly over some topic, judging by the driver's uncomfortable shifting and the furious finger pointed in Millie's face. He had an idea that the maid was trying to dissuade him from going, but Lawrence was adamant. Tapping the side of the coach, he commanded it to move, cutting off the debate.

_**Truth hides under fallen rocks and stones...Truth hides down an unmarked street buried deep beneath your feet…**_

As the cab went bouncing down the cobblestoned street with its duped passengers, Holmes stood up warily. Glancing to his left and then right, he proceeded across the street, his gaze flicking over the stoop and yard pieces in front of the domicile. Taking mental notes, he then scaled the low fence between it and the other home to the left, landing softly on a pile of trash. Ineffectually brushing himself off, Sherlock made his way to the back door, only to find it locked as well. Furtively he surveyed his surroundings again; it seemed he was totally alone and unwatched, but he couldn't be too certain. Pulling open the detective kit on his waist, he fished out his lock-picks. Sizing up the keyhole, he placed the correctly sized metal prop within the hole and dug around with the actual picking device. Within seconds the tumblers yielded and the door swung inward.

"Spectacular," he breathed, pocketing the picks and slipping into the kitchen unnoticed. Shutting it firmly behind him, he turned his attention to the layout of the room he was in. An oven, cupboards, cans, and a large firepit were scattered to the sides, all of them spotless. There were three other doors, one which was warped slightly. The cheap wood panels suggested that the portal led to the basement.

"The primary place to peruse for proof," Sherlock alliterated, shaking his head violently after doing so. "I will never do that again."

_**Truth is lost in the mists of empty vision…**_

All wordplay aside, it was now time to get to work.

**xXxXxXx**

"This is utterly exasperating," exclaimed the consulting detective, throwing yet another door shut.

There were no traces of evidence to be found in the cellar, the office upstairs, or even in the waste bins nestled in a corner of the kitchen. Considering the bareness of the place as a whole (minimal furniture, no literature and few family mementos), Holmes should've found something out of the ordinary, anything, but no. In the front entryway were scrub-brush marks, recently made by a subservient Millie's efforts, hardly admissible as a clue. A few minor documents were laying about Lawrence's desk, but they were of no import. Taking a peek in his armoire, the detective found that there were no clothes or boots out of place. Milling in the hall, he ground his teeth in aggravation. As his time had dwindled down to five minutes, he knew a repeat investigation of any room would lead to his getting caught and a possible fight between him and the big brother-in-law. This scenario, of course, barring a summons of the police.

_**Truth hides whenever we lose our focus, slips out the back, quickly replaced by the bogus fleeing soundbites disguised as facts…**_

Striding forward, his ear caught an almost imperceptible squeak. Applying pressure on his right foot, he felt the floorboard beneath give way. Immediately he dropped down, thumping the boards again to hear where the hollowness was and prying away the wood when he had his answer. Lifting up three boards, he gasped in gratitude to the powers-that-be.

_**Truth hides on the other side …In countless documents that might finally give us the whole of the picture, but until the day we decide to dig a little deeper we know the truth will hide…**_

Residing low in the dark compartment was a bundle, a worn suit wrapped around a pair of equally shabby shoes. An older-looking top hat was mashed flat and tucked into the suit's jacket. Underneath that, papers were stuffed into an old portfolio. Concluding that there was no time to decipher all the materials then, Sherlock grabbed up all the items and hurriedly replaced the floorboards. Tucking the bundle and case under one arm, he deftly maneuvered down the stairs in time to see the front door's knob begin to turn. Caution was thrown to the wind as he bolted out the back, an echo of shocked hollers pelting his hearing as he ran out into the backyard and vaulted the fence.

Vaguely he recalled a police officer's whistle trilling, but he didn't bother with stopping. Ducking through several back alleys, he shed parts of his disguise. The false beard dangled off a sleeping beggar's face, the gray grease wiped onto an old lady's shawl. The last thing to go was the tattered coat, with it wrapped around a poor lad who was unfortunate enough to be in his path.

"Cabbie!" he screeched, forcing a hansom to stop in its tracks. The perplexed driver looked at him strangely, taken aback by Sherlock's red face and lack of a proper jacket. He wheezed slightly, not giving a damn what he looked like at that moment. "To Baker Street, 211B, with all haste!"

**xXxXxXx**

Madeline roamed around the upper rooms of the detective's home, anxious about the entire scheme. Not that she didn't trust Holmes to come through; it was just that she had no idea how long the endeavor could truly take. Nervous sweat rolled down the sides of her face and neck, joining with the perspiration brought on by the fire Holmes insisted on starting that morning.

"He said an hour, but how can he be sure?" she asked herself, before answering, "Oh, he's obviously been in tight and high-risk situations before, he's told me so himself…but why isn't he back yet?"

Stumbling over a haphazard pile of dishes, she glared alternately at the crutch and the wide skirt she was in. She was grateful that Mary and Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to lend her clothing throughout her stay at the Baker Street residence, but it made walking so much harder than it had to be. The cast and crutch already worked against her, but throwing in normal clothing ruined any effort to step forward.

"Wonder what it would be like in trousers…" she mumbled, readjusting the blue cloth. Taking a look at the high-necked blouse and its bunching around her arms, she continued, "Perhaps a man's shirt wouldn't be bad, either."

Her thoughts inevitably turned back to its original course. What was worse than Sherlock still being gone, Watson had not come back, either. She didn't relish the duty he'd undertaken. Lawrence could be downright intimidating externally, as he was over six feet tall and had the girth to go with the height. Telling him that she would not be coming as she pledged would infuriate the man. She'd warned both Holmes and John that things were liable to be broken if she didn't follow through. But then the duo fobbed her off with promises to be quick and concise, and to use the "doctor's orders" excuse, and she wasn't allowed to argue further.

One thing she privately noted was that the doctor slipped a revolver into his pocket before leaving. That indicated that he was realistically expecting trouble and was going out prepared. Whereas Holmes just donned his costume and bid her farewell, totally unarmed.

"He should've brought a gun, or something," Madeline told Gladstone, who was sleeping contentedly by the fireplace. It was far too hot to have a fire going, but the dog didn't mind the heat one bit. "He could've been shot, or captured-"

Suddenly the door burst open, causing her to scream and jump in astonishment. Landing squarely on her behind, she growled slightly when she saw Sherlock standing in the frame, breathing heavily and his arms loaded with things.

"-Or he could be just fine, breaking down doors and scaring the wits out of me!"

"Hullo, Mrs. St. James! I have procured the necessary data that will bring your case to a close," he said, jogging in and dumping the bundle on the floor. Frowning, he tugged at his collar. "Good heavens, why is it ungodly hot in here?"

"You started the fire during a blazing May day, you tell me," she muttered, rubbing her backside to alleviate the pain. Picking up a half-full teapot, he dumped the remains of the beverage onto the flames and doused them fully.

"It was quite a bit chillier this morning…"

"I'll take your word for it, Holmes," she replied, craning her neck to see the bundle better. "So what is all that?"

Sherlock grinned. "The missing pieces to the puzzle."

_**Truth: it's a hide under rocks and stones, at the end of your line, down an unmarked street…**_

Clearing a space on the floor, the detective spread the battered suit out on the carpet. A large number of pins poked through the tweed material, and mud splattered the hems of the pants. The shoes insoles were meticulously cut out and laid next to the clothes, and the top hat's brim was removed as well. Sheets of papers involving a great number of figures were placed alongside the notes taken from Madeline's house, the letterings matching up perfectly. One even went into full detail of the plot to kill her, making her stomach turn with revulsion. Lastly, the sample taken from the lady's destroyed dress was placed up a glass plate and set down beside the dirty hems.

Crawling over and taking a closer look at all the letters, Madeline's jaw dropped open.

"These…" she croaked.

"Match exactly," he supplied for her, plunging his hands into the suit's pockets. He found nothing, and so he settled back on his haunches.

"And the mud-"

"Same as the letters."

Her face contorted in repulsion, her shoulders slumping almost in defeat.

"And it wasn't-"

"No," Sherlock answered truthfully, sitting cross-legged beside her. Now that he had the proof, he could share his discoveries with her. It appeared, though, she'd found out the truth herself. However, it would be useless to reiterate a story without the police present...

_**Truth: it's a hide under rocks and stones, at the end of your line.**_

"My assumptions, drawn while observing your house and listening to your story, and confirmed by the cab driver and this evidence on the floor before us, are correct. Now we shall call in Lestrade, and explain to him exactly why a maid named Millie Donaldson must be arrested on charges of attempted murder."

* * *

**Author's note:** Ahh, another chapter out. It makes me happy…does it make you guys happy? I hope so…and finally Holmes discloses the identity of the would-be killer. Did you guys think it was Millie? I did...but then again, I am the author, so...Next time he will explain how he deduced it all!

If anyone has song suggestions, let me know in a review. I have a list that I'd like to do, but if any of you think of one that might fit in this story, let me know in a review. Well, with that said, thanks for reading, review and all that jazz, and see ya next week!

By the way, this fic is nowhere near over yet, no matter what this chapter suggests. Alright, I'll be back soon, so good night/day/afternoon (depending on your time zone)!


	10. Slow Me Down

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "Slow Me Down" by Emmy Rossum(in bold). In my defense, I liked the lyrics of the song, so…yeah.

* * *

The inspector wasn't very pleased to be called to Baker Street, and said as much when he rattled up the staircase to Holmes' rooms at half past seven that evening.

"He knows full well that the case was ruled an accident. It's done for," Lestrade harrumphed to Clarke as they walked in the door. After nodding to a stock-still Madeline, he turned his beady eyes onto Holmes himself. "Can't you leave something that is finished alone?"

Holmes smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Yes…if it were indeed a thoroughly closed case, I would. But then again, I was hired by the lady to take a deeper look at the matter, find the facts. It could do your reputation some good if you followed in the same vein more often."

Watson, having returned just before the inspector arrived, clicked his tongue.

"Perhaps, now that Lestrade is here, you can commence with your…evidence."

Glancing first at him, and then at the woman seated next to the window, the detective rose out of his seat.

"As you know, Mrs. St. James has, until a few days ago, kept her story of events a secret," he began, shuffling through pieces of the evidence that were lying around the room. "A failed investigation made by her brother-in-law prompted her to confess about a life of sadness and jealousy to me; I recorded the details in my own journal. Recently he had returned to town with his single servant, Millie, and after years of hatred he tried to make amends. This brother was…is…jealous of the closeness Madeline had shared with her husband, his brother, but he's trying to turn over a new leaf.

"However, she was not called out on the day of the accident to see him, but her old nanny. She found a note wedged in the doorway…after the maid Millie had left her with a letter from her master. Being a woman devoted to her ex-caretaker, she went, and was summarily trampled. Comparing the writing to samples taken from another of the nanny's letters, the words on the note did not match. Nor did they match the brother-in-law's."

His tale grew darker with every other piece of evidence placed before Lestrade's eyes. Dirt clods taken from Madeline's ripped dress led him to Lewisham, but first a report from the nanny herself caused him to search through the Sloane Street house. There he found the items needed for comparison, but then his quick trip to the stable with Watson revealed much more. Telling of the poor driver's plight, Holmes poked at the clothes on the floor. They were several years old, cast-offs of Lawrence's wardrobe. The pant legs and jacket arms were pinned up to fit someone with a smaller frame, and the inside of the show held a more delicate imprint inside the larger one. The recent wearer of the shoes had petite feet, at least compared to those of the original owner. The most damning part of the clothing was the mud gathered on the left heel.

"As a gentleman, Mr. St. James would never set foot in a stable, let alone the Hither Green stables by his home in Lewisham. When found your missing driver, he confirmed my suspicion that he was approached by a lad, hiding in bulky clothes and beneath a large cap," Sherlock commented lightly. "He was bullied into service, and paid enough money to set up a home elsewhere."

"Where is the driver now? Why didn't you bring him in?!" demanded the inspector.

"He got away," chimed Watson, Madeline and Holmes in unison. Sharing a mutual look of surprise with his companions, the detective ventured forward.

"Ahem…driven by this determination, I went in to search Mr. St. James' residence, and then found these clothes and a stack of papers hidden beneath the floorboards."

Clarke rubbed his eyes. "Sir, that's breaking and entering."

"Perhaps, but it solved the puzzle and put any doubt to rest. This handwriting matches that of one Millicent Donaldson, otherwise known as Millie. Upon obtaining a note inscribing her master's address, I was able to draw my conclusions upon the first note and now these diary pages. She is the grand architect in this scheme. Each page explicitly states her intention to cause the lady's death. Wages are counted and allotted to this paper in the back," Holmes murmured, thumbing through them and handing the pages off to the inspector. "This one speaks of plots, and here we see…ah, 'that hell imp will pay dearly for all she's done' and the initials of the writer are at the bottom of the page: M.D."

Lestrade slumped against the far wall, closing his eyes and expelling a slow breath.

"What of motive, Mr. Holmes? You've forgotten the motive," he exhaled, feeling a tad overwhelmed by the fast-hitting information.

"Now, dear Inspector, you know me better than that, I hope!" Sherlock chuckled with no real mirth. "Is it not obvious? Jealousy is the motive."

"Explain."

"Servants tend to, over long periods of employment, develop loyalty to their masters. In Millie's case, she doted on Lawrence hand and foot, and was the only woman in his life for a long period of time. She began to fall in love with him, the one man who needed her constantly. Then up jumped a strange girl, who stole the person who made her master the happiest. So blindly in love is Millie that she didn't and still doesn't understand how her master will never love her back. All she was able to see was that an obstacle stood in both their ways. That would be you, Madeline."

The damaged woman nodded, but otherwise remained silent. She wanted to hear the story unfold from another person's perspective for once, and to know she wasn't imagining all the events happening around her.

_**Rushing and racing and running in circles, **__**moving so fast, I'm forgetting my purpose…**_

"So she began to save her money, plot and plan to take her out of the way. She planted small seeds of doubt, made her master attempt to persuade his brother to come away with them. A small hitch occurred; Simon St. James dies, and Lawrence St. James runs away from his home. For awhile, that satisfied Millie, as she had her master all to herself. Then, when he expressed the desire to move back to London, she knew she had to remove Madeline from the landscape. And that's when she set her ultimate plan into motion," Holmes paused, his gaze drifting over everyone to make sure they were still paying attention. "Dressing up as a young man, she blackmailed the weak driver into doing her bidding, backing it up with earnings saved over years and years. She painstakingly tried to copy Ruth Bray's writing and draw Mrs. St. James out of her home for a visit, and then stuck the note in the door when she was ordered to deliver her master's letter. And on the days before and after the attempt, she spied upon the house, leaving behind her dainty footprints in the soft ground and her obvious goal of finding out if the home was devoid of the lady's presence entirely."

Picking up his since-discarded pipe, he fiddled with it and turned his back on his audience.

"Hardly a difficult case, when one thinks upon it, but-"

"We'll need a confession out the woman before we can arrest her," Lestrade chimed quietly, motioning for Clarke to gather the clothing and samples up. "But I doubt it would take much, when faced with your conclusions."

Facing him again, Holmes had absolutely no expression gracing his features. "What, no fighting me this time? No disparaging insults?"

The inspector shrugged. "You're completely convinced, and since you've given me reasons to actually consider reopening the case, then no, I am not going to stand in the way. Honestly, I don't have the energy or time to blather on about your methods today. Besides, I believe this maid may have a notion that you have picked up on her trail, and so it would be best to act now and not let her go to ground."

"Wise idea," Watson grunted, leaning forward on his walking stick.

As the men began to discuss an attack plan, Madeline silently rose from her perch and clambered out of the rooms. She wanted a moment's peace, away from voices and plots and the imminent danger. Her stomach was roiling angrily, along with her mind. She decided to conquer the stairs, and at a snail's pace she began to descend.

The one thing she absolutely certain of in her mixed-up world was that Lawrence was the one behind everything. She had clung to the hate, as if it was a tow rope pulling her out of the depths of a murky lake of depression. To have that idea turned upside down and utterly disproven was shocking. Millie had always seemed a little too nosy, and a tad too ambitious for a maid...how could she have been the one driven to murder? Perhaps what her brother-in-law had written her before was true: she was his last link to his family, being the wife of his dead brother. Why then would he ever want her killed? But a woman hot under the collar with jealousy, openly scorning her with each blazing glare directed at her during visits, definitely could do the job. It did make sense; it was just somehow hard to wrap her mind around.

_**My head and my heart are colliding, chaotic…pace of the world, I just wish I could stop it…**__**try to appear like I've got it together…**_

The smooth flow of her recently passed days in Holmes' residence had picked up pace, and now events were traveling at a rate she had no idea if she could follow. Her only hope making it through to the end would be the detective himself.

'_Life has become considerably more complicated in the last four days,' _she thought, pivoting and preparing to take on the second staircase. _'I sincerely hope that my faith isn't misplaced in Sherlock.'_

_**Save me…somebody take my hand, and lead me, slow me down…**_

"Madeline!"

'_Damn, I was so close to my goal,'_ she mused, her head swinging back towards the voice calling her. She had only managed to make it to the second step down.

"What?"

The policeman brushed past her suddenly, the inspector in tow as they flew out the door. John and Holmes came after them, pausing on the steps beside her.

"He has a plan…" the doctor started.

"And it involves you," Holmes butted in. "We intend to draw the maid out-"

"I don't agree with this method at all," Watson countered. "If you don't want to do this, then you don't have to."

"-With your assistance. I assure you, no real danger will befall you," the detective glossed over his friend's words as if he hadn't spoken.

"You can't assure that at all!"

"But if it works…"

"What if it doesn't?!"

No wonder she had nagging feelings of doubt.

"Gentlemen!" Madeline cried, stilling their argument. "If it will bring the matter to a speedy close, then I'll gladly participate. One question, though: what am I to do? I cannot move with any ease, so engaging in a chase is plainly undoable."

Sherlock's mouth, earlier pressed into a thin line, felt his lips stretch into an almost devious smile.

"You won't move much, but if you do need to, that problem can be easily rectified. How do you feel about wearing trousers?"

**xXxXxXx**

'_Strangely enough, I am more uncomfortable with this than I thought,'_ Madeline groused silently. The trousers wore woolen, itchy, and hotter than blazes. The foreign separated material made her feel even more self-conscious than before. Yes, she had thought that as a cripple, she would have liked more freedom for her bandaged leg, but she could see the merit in hiding it underneath a skirt now. The suspenders dug into her shoulder blades through the blouse, and no matter how she shifted she couldn't erase the pain.

She was left alone, briefly, at Baker Street. Holmes, in disguise, went to deliver a telegram that was supposedly from Madeline to Lawrence. Instead, he would make sure it would reach Millie's hands. Once she had the address, the maid would most likely go after Madeline secretly, ready to finish the job she'd long ago plotted. However, unbeknownst to her, several of Lestrade's men, Watson, and Holmes himself would trace her path to 221B, and take her down once she confirmed the detective's theories. All Madeline had to do was draw her in and keep Millie within reach.

Sitting in a chair in the ground floor lounge, she closed her eyes and ignored the heat floating out of the fireplace. Every now and again she stirred it with the poker, leaving it to rest within the coals. A window was opened, allowing the warmth to bleed out into the night air. The stage was set, and all that was needed was the antagonist to make her way up center. And a half hour later, she did.

_**Sometimes I fear that I might disappear in the blur of fast forward…I falter again…**_

The limp-wristed, scraggly-haired woman barged through the front door, her dress disheveled and her blue eyes freezing Madeline's blood. A revolver hung loosely by her side, but intent was written all over her face.

"How did you find me?" Madeline recited, jerking back in fright. _'Alright, calm, try and stay calm…'_

"Got the telegram you sent my Lawrence," was the grating response. The maid circled her, the pistol shaking slightly. "For years you hate him and belittle him, and now after you broke a few bones, you wish to be friends?"

She gaped at the madwoman before her. "I almost died…"

"Pity that you didn't," Millie snapped roughly. An evil grin cropped up on her mouth suddenly. "Or perhaps not. Taking the coward's route was not nearly satisfying enough. I much rather prefer seeing you squirm. And I'll do it right this time; no shoddy driver will wreck this for me."

She moved closer, and Madeline's hand instinctively clutched the fiery poker. Forcing herself to choke down the fear, she stirred the logs again and pretended to not be affected.

_**Tired of rushing, racing and running…I'm falling apart…**_

The maid went on, "You took everything away from him, from me. You deserved all the wounds. You're not worthy to live while he lives. He could've…we could've…but then you had to ruin everything, had to marry Simon and kill Lawrence's joy."

"How odd, then, that you should work so hard to murder me," St. James muttered, giving the coals another poke. Her green eyes glowed in the flames' light, and her heart leapt to her throat. "He doesn't care for you."

"Be quiet," Millie warned.

"How could he ever love anyone but his brother? There's no conceivable way he could love any woman like he did Simon."

"I told you to shut up! It isn't true, he's a devoted brother, that's all!"

Allowing silence to settle momentarily, Madeline uttered the cruelest words she could muster.

"You know it's true. And besides…you're a maid. You're not good enough for him. You're dirt under his feet, and you know it."

With her fury getting the best of her, Millie raised the revolver and fired blindly. Her shot was four feet off the mark, making a piece of the wall explode. Somehow jumping up and keep her footing, Madeline pulled the heavy poker out and swung it hard, her arm straining beneath the iron's weight. Now she was grateful for the trousers; were she in a skirt she would've crashed to the ground and left as prey for the lunatic maid. She caught Millie on the left thigh, felling her like a sack of bricks. The revolver skittered away, lodging itself underneath the divan by the far wall. The flaming stick was trapped in the folds of Millie's dress, smoke rising from the cloth at an alarming rate. Attempting to pull away, she tugged hard on the poker and brought St. James down to her level.

"Take it back!" screamed the coarse woman, dragging the other into a wrestling match. "Take it back, you harlot!"

Madeline fought back as best she could, slapping at exposed skin and pulling hair. It was like a schoolyard brawl, but it was a matter of life or death for her. Later she would be able to see the humor in the situation, but at the moment all she cared was keeping the maid's clawing fingers away from her throat.

_**Just need to breathe, somebody please **__**slow me down…**_

And then…_thunk!_

The butt of a pistol smashed into the back of Millie's skull, rendering her unconscious. She collapsed against Madeline, who immediately shunted her off to the side. Holmes crouched beside her, dropping his gun and looping her good arm across his shoulders. Watson stumbled in, doing cursory checks of both ladies before calling out to the police officers waiting outside.

Sherlock didn't ask her if she was alright; her face reflected the mix of terror, elation, and anxiety that were dueling inside her mind. Rather, he just helped her back up, acting as a human crutch.

"Good work, my dear lady, good work," he mumbled under his breath. And it was damn good work for a woman who only had ample use of one arm and one leg. Instead of verbally responding, she gripped him around his midsection tightly, and watched as the true bane of her current existence was hauled off to Scotland Yard.

* * *

**Author's note:** Sorry I'm a little late this week! Really, I am sorry…the last two weeks before finals are always a killer (no joke intended), and this week has proved to be no exception. Since finals are rapidly approaching, updates may not be on a set schedule.

I will say this again: this fic is not over yet, despite this chapter's events. I have an idea of where I want to go with it now, and I hope all of you will be willing to continue reading. That said, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, please review, and have fun doing what you're doing, while I'm wading through group presentations and final projects! :)


	11. I Stand

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "I Stand" by Idina Menzel (in bold).

* * *

June 8th, 1891

The trial of St. James vs. Donaldson would end up being a blur in Madeline's memory. The day started out well enough, bright and sunny for once in the city. She vaguely remembered being pulled out of bed by Sherlock, forced into the best dress that Mary and Mrs. Hudson could find, and then assisted down the stairs by Watson…all before someone finally mentioned the reason why. She'd forgotten it was the eight of June, as her lawyer had droned on and on about the court date the day after Millie's arrest. During the man's lackluster mutterings, she found Holmes' attempts at scaling the building just beyond her window to be more entertaining. Mildly he advised her to be honest with her statements, and then he left, just in time for the detective to crash through the half-opened window and drop unceremoniously into the flat.

And here she was now, cramped in a carriage with the good doctor and Sherlock and galloping off to the trial.

"I'd much rather not be in the same room as that…woman again," Madeline replied sullenly, leaning against the coach's seat uncomfortably. A gnawing of fear began in her stomach as she thought more on it. "Lord, Millie wouldn't attack me in the courtroom, would she?"

"Of course she wouldn't," Watson supplied quickly, poking Holmes to make him pay attention to the conversation.

Brushing his companion off, the detective sighed, "At the very least she wouldn't be able to do much. It's highly unlikely that she has any allies sneaking her weaponry into the prison."

Madeline chuckled. "That's certainly true."

"I find it quite curious that the widow of a barrister would not know what a prisoner could and could not do in a courtroom," he goaded her, crossing his arms and cocking his head to the left. She half shrugged in response.

"I'm a little rusty on the protocol, since I haven't gone into a courtroom ever and my husband had learned in the first year of our marriage that proceedings of the law went completely over my head," she commented lightly. "I'll admit it, had I paid more attention to his ramblings I wouldn't ask foolish questions…but then again, it would not have been worth the time figuring who inquires or cross-questions first."

_**And I don't know what tomorrow brings…I don't try and change the world; but what will you make of me?**_

Holmes rubbed his eyes. "Yes, I suppose English litigation has no place in between thoughts on _'The Three Musketeers'_ and Poe's ghastly writings."

"Just because you don't like Dupin…"

"The man is an utter imbecile!"

"Not to mention, fictional."

John groaned, "Not another one…"

The duo stopped and turned to look at him curiously.

"Not another what, Watson?" Holmes asked, quirking up an eyebrow.

"Well, I was hoping to go an entire carriage ride without another argument between the two of you," he said, his tone harrowed. Madeline tried to force her smile down, but was failing considerably.

"I don't recall us having an argument," she murmured, smoothing down the lap of her dress before glancing at the detective across from her. "Do you, Mr. Holmes?"

"Oh, absolutely not, Mrs. St. James. Watson, I believe you mistook our lively interaction as something more," he interjected, receiving a concurring nod from the lady. The doctor rolled his eyes at them both.

"What's the difference between an argument and a 'lively interaction' with you both?" he wondered.

"Simple," the lady replied. "I hadn't come up with a creative-yet-derogatory nickname for Holmes in the course of the conversation. That's how you can tell."

Sherlock agreed, his face a complete display of seriousness. After a minute of complete silence fell upon the cab, the detective and Madeline launched back into discussion, with him giving her a general outline of how the proceedings would go once the trial commenced. Watching their animated gestures towards one another, Watson leaned back in his seat and allowed himself a small smile. First they despised each other, and now they had conspired against him in a joking manner? Perhaps Holmes had warmed up to her more than he let on.

Well, John certainly wouldn't begrudge either of them the friendship. After all, once they reached the courts, the widow would most definitely need someone to rely on as her deadly case was once again replayed before her eyes. Her female friends (Constance and Julianne, if he remembered their names correctly) were out of the country, but sent their best wishes to her; wishes were scant comfort, he knew that as a personal truth. Her old caretaker was ill with influenza, and therefore could not be there either. So she had only him and Holmes to stand by her.

Or perhaps, by the way her eyes lingered on the detective's face whenever he glanced away, Watson deduced that she really felt she could only fall back on Sherlock alone. All too soon, the cab slowed down, and the door sprang open. The trio all looked at one another, none of them willing to be the first one out.

"So…here we are," Madeline breathed, biting her lip nervously and gripping her hands tightly together.

"And what a place we are at," Holmes wryly spouted, earning a tight-lipped grin from the female companion. She remembered when he first spoke those words, and her hand flew up to her hair subconsciously, its scandalous cut hidden in a borrowed hat. Looking over to Watson, he grandly waved towards the steps beyond the carriage door. "Shall we go, then?"

**xXxXxXx**

It was a boring affair in the court, with Millie strapped down in a chair separated from the stands and the judge. The testimony she delivered incriminated her the more she went on, despite the defense trying to shush her at regular intervals. She was entirely determined to paint Madeline the cruel mastermind behind her actions, claiming the lady was mad and pulling strings to strike Lawrence from his brother's will. The list went on, but everyone could see the lies for what they were. Lawrence, for his part, was noticeably absent. When he was called forward, a letter he'd sent to the court clearly indicated that he washed his hands of his maid and declared his innocence in the plot.

"'The woman is mad, and acted on her own. I had no notion about her plots, and would never have approved them in any case. There has been too much death and tragedy in both our lives; perpetuating it is not something I would ever do,'" read Madeline's lawyer to the court, going on to say that the page was signed as a witness statement by an Officer Clarke and Inspector Lestrade to ensure its legitimacy.

Millie's lawyer changed tack, and began arguing a plea of insanity, until Sherlock Holmes took the stand and shamed the barrister with his collective knowledge of the evidence. After all, he argued, if insanity was the case, then all people actively participating in pursuits of passion must be mad. The audience attending the trial sniggered, and the maid shot them all a death glare.

"Calling Mrs. Madeline St. James to the stand!" a voice boomed from the front. Painfully, Madeline rose out of her chair, a reassuring pat on the shoulder from Watson comforting her briefly.

Hobbling up the long aisle to the stand was embarrassing. She could feel the pitying stares burning into her skin, the whispers about her still-bandaged arm and leg reaching her ears. The crutch suddenly felt foreign and massive as she kept going, the plaster weighing her down. It made her sick to be such a spectacle, and she lost the courage to continue the last few steps up to the stands.

It didn't help at all that she hadn't associated with hardly anyone in over a month. Her only companions had been a doctor, a dog, and an eccentric detective with a penchant for the strange and fascinating vices of the world. Hardly acceptable in her great aunt's view, she mulled over humorously, even though she was dead and had no say over Madeline's social circle. Was it so bad, to be cooped up in a little array of room with such a strange man? Evidently it was, since she had been so sheltered and unaware of the public's interest in the case. So many Londoners had come to see the trial out of sheer curiosity, to see her, to know who she was.

_**When you ask me, who I am: What is my vision? And do I have a plan?**_

'_Is this all they see me as? That woman who got trampled? The cripple who a victim of a crime of passion? Or maybe I'm just the lady who is trying to ruin a working girl because they think I have nothing better to do. Maybe they believe the drivel that spilled out of Millie's mouth…who am I to them? Who am I anymore?'_ she thought, attempting to control her breathing.

A low murmuring buzzed as she froze, her blood pounding in her ears and her face flushing. At that moment, Madeline would've given the world to simply melt into the floor and disappear. She was determined to not look helpless and lost before coming into the building, and she had just destroyed those goals all on her own. The leftover stitches on her body itched beneath her dress, and her eyes lost focus.

_**Where is my strength? Have I nothing to say? I hear the words in my head, but I push them away.**_

A hand gently pressed in the small of her back steered her forward, and her crutch, which had clattered to the floor unnoticed, was replaced under her arm.

"You've come this far, no stopping now," crowed the voice of a friend, the aggravating man who had saved her life in more ways than one. Turning her head in the direction of his face, she displayed a wavering grin.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," she responded, and in and even quieter voice, she continued, "Really, thank you, my friend."

_**I hope for a hero to save me…I stand for the strange and lonely, I believe there's a better place.**_

He nodded, and backed away slowly, resuming his seat next to Watson beyond the first row of attendants. She mounted the stand swiftly after her moment of paralysis, and demurely nodded to the lawyers in greeting. Madeline, after that point, answered all the questions they put forth to the best of her knowledge, but would remember none of it. The trial didn't matter much in the long run; it was the sentencing that would stick out the most in her mind. That, and Holmes' encouragement to go on and not be afraid.

"Millicent Donaldson, I hereby declare you…" the judge finally began, and the world vanished in those few moments.

**xXxXxXx**

"Guilty! Maid convicted of crime of passion! Sherlock Holmes once again brings down the scum of society's servants!" a newsboy called out on the corner beyond the glass of 221B later that evening. Holmes ground his teeth, irritated with the pronouncement.

"I have met far worse people…" he trailed off, turning away from the window and plunking down into his favorite chair. Watson was seated across from him, idly scratching between Gladstone's ears. Madeline was downstairs, chatting with Mary about the trial and exchanging stories of their own private adventures from when they were younger girls.

"Now, why so irate, Holmes?" John queried his friend, tilting his head to the right. "The case is solved, the guilty woman is locked away, and your client is safe. You couldn't possibly be bored already, correct?"

Sherlock muttered incoherently, all of it in a negative connotation.

"Then what? The city of London is safe for Mrs. Madeline St. James to wander around once again. Just like you wanted it to be."

The detective dark eyes flashed up momentarily. "Yes…but how can we be certain?"

The doctor shrugged. "It's impossible to be certain, but it seems a fair guess…"

"No, no," Holmes cut in, leaning forward in a conspiring manner. "I wouldn't guess that right now. She's still on the mend from her wounds, and could be prey to some misguided idiot. For all her twisted words, Donaldson may have swayed someone to her side."

"I was thinking that I would actually remove the plaster from her arm within two days," his companion said, nonchalantly straightening his jacket. "Maybe I'll even allow her to return home. The blood has settled successfully, and she can function properly."

"Still, with a plastered leg, I think it would be wiser that she remain here until the final cast comes off. She would be safer here, until the fervor around the case and trial cool down."

Smirking, Watson shook his head while at the same time agreeing to Sherlock's terms. He gave sound reasons, and John just didn't have it in him to object to his compatriot's ideas. Mumbling about taking Mary home for a spot of supper, he paused in the doorway and looked back at Holmes. The detective had risen again from his chair, and pawed through old newspapers hurriedly. To someone less familiar and less observant, it would seem that he was engaged in a mind-encompassing pursuit, but John knew better.

"You know, Holmes, it is possible to remain friends with someone after they've left your home. Just for your information," he said softly, causing Holmes' movements to stop abruptly. Sherlock looked over at his best friend, understanding that what was said went doubly for their situation. Things had been a tad strained ever since Watson's marriage and it was harder to remain in touch now that they were not dually paying the rent. But they both were trying…and that was what counted. Maybe he was tad anxious about losing another person he was connected to.

_**As the rain washes us from the ground, we forget who we are…we can't see in the dark and we quickly get lost in the crowd…**_

But that was why Holmes would just have to continue trying and pursuing another person. It would be a challenge, but he was never one to shy away from such a thing. Especially since Madeline was female; that alone was going to be a test, as he and women generally did not mix. Straightening his stance he met Watson's gaze confidently, accepting the metaphorically thrown gauntlet.

"Good night, Watson, call again soon," Holmes grunted, inclining his head politely.

"Don't be a stranger around Cavendish Place, Holmes," was John's humored retort before the doctor pivoted on his heel and marched down the stairs. Shortly thereafter, Holmes heard the muffled voices of the Watsons as they bid the housekeeper and the lady below farewell before opening and shutting the front door.

_**I stand for the strange and lonely, I believe there's a better place…I don't know if the sky is heaven, but I pray anyway.**_

"Never will be, John," he said to himself, before trotting down the stairs and engaging in conversation with the leftover friend sitting in his parlor.

* * *

**Author's note:** Late again, I apologize…damn finals, they are the bane of my existence! I'll probably be late updating again next week, since I'm going away on a family vacation and moving back home as well, but I promise there will be an update soon. Thanks for reading, and I'm begging ya, please review (I am definitely not above begging)! Good night, and I'll see you guys soon!

PS: Sorry if this post is a little random at the end. I had no idea how to finish the chapter, so…there ya go. Oh well…


	12. Borrowed Time

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "Borrowed Time" by John Lennon (in bold).

* * *

June 26th, 1891

"Watson?"

"Yes, Holmes?"

"I have been pondering a singularly unique conundrum for the past several hours, and I would greatly appreciate your help."

The doctor, lounging in the one clean chair in the whole of Sherlock's residence, swiftly stood up. It was not often that the detective called for any intellectual assistance, and Watson could only wonder what he was stuck on.

"Certainly, Sherlock."

Sighing abruptly, Holmes flopped to the floor. "Allow me to review the facts. Mrs. St. James has, as you know, removed herself from my rooms upon her full recovery."

John nodded, and prompted his friend, "As per my prognosis. Do go on."

"Second fact: she confided in me some time ago that her birthday is, in fact, on this very day."

Watson raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"As such, she has invited you and I, along with Mary and Gladstone to join her for a birthday dinner, to celebrate her recovery, trial, and ability to make it to her twenty-seventh year. I will admit, Watson, that even having recently forged a companionship with this woman, I was considering not attending."

"Oh come now, Holmes-"

"I said I considered it. After all, I am…" he trailed off, casting his glance around his cluttered, and yet somehow empty, flat. "…occupied usually for a great deal of the time. However, I find myself inexplicably unemployed and in need of distraction. Even if only for an evening."

There was no pulling the wool over the doctor's eyes; he could see that his compatriot had more motives behind the gesture of accepting the invitation besides boredom. With her gone, Sherlock was alone again. Not that he couldn't function on his own, since he'd done it for years before he met the doctor or the lady. His personality was enough to cause people to feel insecure and inferior, and the methods of his madness frightened them away completely. Perhaps that was why he clung so tightly to Watson and Madeline: once he found people he didn't consider average and spiteful, he tried to keep them in his grasp. That was the theory that John had, anyway.

The last two weeks of Madeline's confinement flew by, certainly faster than Holmes expected it to. First the arm cast came off, then the remaining stitches removed, and finally the leg plaster was cut away. Her arm and leg were weak from four weeks of zero use, but Sherlock took a little time each day to get her maneuvering everything properly again…in his own special way of course. Her reflexes became a lot sharper, no thanks to a barrage of items thrown at her in the meantime, and more than once in the last week Watson had to bolt up the steps to make sure she hadn't accidently been skewered in some way, shape or form because of their mutual friend.

Still, despite the last week of near-torture, Madeline threw her arms around Holmes when the day to return home had come, saying she'd miss her odd flatmate. And for his part, the detective awkwardly returned the embrace and muttered something about both of them being able to regain their sanity.

Realizing he'd been mulling for far too long, John grunted, "Glad to see you choosing distraction in the form of a formal dinner, rather than through your other vices."

"Too true, my friend," Holmes smoothly replied, as if there had been no extended silence. "And so, I have been with the event looming ever closer, I need your assistance with this question: what sort of gift does one give to a twenty-seven-year-old woman who survived a carriage accident and a blood transfusion, and who has tolerated living in close quarters with you for four weeks?"

_**Full of ideas and broken dreams my friend…everything simple, but not so clear…living on borrowed time…**_

Blinking, the doctor exhaled rapidly. "I, uh…I'm unsure of the answer. Mary took care of the present, we're jointly giving it to her."

"I just assumed you would know, given your affinity for the fairer sex," the detective remarked drolly, shrugging his shoulders. Watson narrowed his eyes, slightly annoyed, but he was far more amused by Sherlock's floundering at such an unusual dilemma as finding a reasonable gift.

"I'd rather have an affinity than an aversion," he rejoined, cocking his head to the left.

"Only an aversion to the majority," Holmes quipped, recognizing the friendly barb beneath the words. "The minority, however, are a completely different tale."

Shaking his head, John murmured, "Drawing up a list of Madeline's likes and dislikes could lead to a solution."

Slapping his thigh, Sherlock smiled. "Capital idea, old chap."

Both men chewed their lips in thought for few minutes, before the man on the carpet started ticking ideas off on his fingers.

"The woman likes painting, poetry, and the opera. She cannot play an instrument, but loves to hear music. Besides reading, she likes to run competitively. Also, she strongly dislikes sewing."

Watson began summing up out loud as well, lowering himself back into his chair. "Madeline hates cats, loves dogs…perhaps buy her a puppy?"

His companion on the ground waved his hand. "No, she refers to Gladstone as her surrogate dog. Couldn't possibly replace him…hmm. She likes to read, specifically novels and plays."

'_And one novel in particular…'_ he thought, an unbidden memory flashing through his mind.

"_Just why are you so infatuated with this book?" he'd asked her the day after the trial, finding her curled up yet again with "The Three Musketeers". Genuinely curious, he continued, "You've gone so far as to nickname your friends and yourself after the characters. Why?"_

_Closing the book, her face adopted a dreamy expression when she'd collected her answer. Her green eyes glazed over slightly, the freckles on her face making her appear much younger as she spoke._

"_I like the musketeers because of their adventures. Swashbuckling lives are theirs to lead; trading on wit, plots, and swordplay, they achieve their goals. God knows that if it were acceptable to my great aunt, I would've picked up my grandfather's old sword and started on a grand escapade when I was younger, but it 'simply was not proper'," Madeline murmured, rolling her eyes and accenting the last words to show her displeasure. "Now here I am, still reading this story and still wishing for the adventure."_

"_Without the hardships and uncertainties, I'm sure."_

_She giggled. "Quite right, Mr. Holmes." _

Without warning, Sherlock sprang up from the floor, knocking over an entire end table piled high with papers. Watson jerked back in his seat, stunned by the sudden energy ripping through his friend's body.

"By George, I've lit upon the answer!" he cried, throwing off his tattered robe and fumbling for an old jacket of the doctor's. "Thank you for all your help, Watson, I must go at once. I will see you for dinner at Madeline's home. Again, you've done me a wonderful service. Farewell!"

Slamming the door behind him, he had no idea the frozen expression of shock still gracing John's face. Unable to move from his chair, he stared at the spot where his comrade had lain only moments before until his mind caught up with the actions.

"…You're welcome?"

**xXxXxXx**

Seven o'clock came, and all the guests had arrived at Madeline's Sloane Street home. First "Nanny" Ruth Bray had come, fifteen minutes early, to get a few moments with her "precious girl" to herself. Since Madeline hadn't spent much time with her in a long while, she didn't mind at all being with her second mother. Next Julianne and her gauche husband Stephen plowed through the door. Where Julianne was brazen in a fun-loving, harmless way, Stephen was far more crass and controlling. His presence was merely tolerated while his wife and her close friend caught up on the past few weeks' events.

Constance was unable to make it due to a prior event at the convent, but sent a bouquet of flowers with a card congratulating her on her wondrous recovery and walking another year in God's grace. And as the seventh bell chimed in the grandfather clock down the hall, a knock at the door heralded the arrival of the final three party guests: Doctor John Watson, Missus Mary Watson and Mister Sherlock Holmes. Gladstone stood in between his two masters, his leash gripped firmly in Holmes' hand. Mary was in a sweeping grey gown, her husband in a matching grey suit. The detective loitering behind them had even managed to comb his hair and shave; he cleaned up very well, Madeline noted privately. As the clambered into the front hall, she greeted each one with a quick embrace and a wide smile. They all noticed her improving gait and strengthened stance, approving of her increasing recovery.

"I'm so glad you came," she breathed, straightening the skirt of her new green dress. Bending down to pet the dog, she continued, "Welcome to the celebration of the downfall of my youth."

"Aye, happy birthday, dear," Mary snickered, giving her an extra squeezing hug. The young maid employed for the evening bustled away, taking their presents and Gladstone into another room.

Giving her his once-over look, Sherlock muttered, "I take it by the strain in your voice and the hardness in your eyes that something is clearly bothering you."

She nodded. "Yes, Julianne Tyler, you remember her, brought her wonderfully _American_ husband Stephen along. He's very…brash, shall we say."

"Oh, I'm sure he can't be all bad," Watson chimed, trying to remain optimistic. Madeline blinked, and let a dark chuckle roll out of her mouth.

"Just wait for it…"

A deep-throated voice suddenly called out, "Where did the old maid-widow get to? Has the doddering girl gotten lost?"

_**Now I am older, the more that I see the less that I know for sure…**_

The three sets of eyebrows of her newly-arrived guests simultaneously rose and fell, with their faces creasing in distaste. Madeline grimaced as well, indicating that she'd been privy to nasty little comments from the man in previous outings and events.

"Marriage of convenience?" Holmes surmised, given his impression of the bubbly, bouncing Julianne weeks ago and the rudeness of her husband now. Again, Madeline nodded, pressing a hand to her eyes.

"Very convenient, at least for the people who arranged it," she whispered, before plastering on the most insincere smile she could muster and leading them into the lounge. Introductions went around, with much exultation over Holmes' reputation as a consulting detective and Watson's doctoral abilities. Stephen was determined to not be outdone by these men, flaunting his status as a _nouveau riche_ and plying them with the stock market statistics. Spying her companions' increasingly irritated expressions, Madeline wisely announced that dinner would be ready soon and they should meander into the dining room.

Slipping away to the kitchen as her guests seated themselves, she crooked her finger at the bustling cook.

"Mr. Tyler is here, I'm sure you heard," she began, rolling her eyes. A hand was raised, stopping her speech.

"I'll get the sleeping powder, ma'am, as usual," Mrs. Talbot cut off her employer, reaching through her spices for a tin hidden in the back. Madeline couldn't help her tight-lipped grin; the cook knew her and the man's troubling mouth all too well. "All Americans should learn how to rear their children properly, not just a certain few."

"I utterly agree, Alberta," Madeline groaned, turning back to take her seat two rooms away. Everyone rose from their chairs, waiting for her to circle to the head of the table. Holmes raised an eyebrow at her, silently enquiring where she had gone, what she was up to. Her wry smile in answer told him to wait and see.

_**Now I am older (ah hah), the future is brighter and now is the hour…living on borrowed time…**_

The wine was served, the glass set delicately before each patron. Flicking his eyes over everything, Sherlock observed how Mr. Tyler's wine was a fraction darker than everyone else's. Something had been dropped in the drink that had dissolved quickly and altered the exterior slightly. Poisons did that, but he knew that Madeline would never murder…no matter how exasperating the guest was. Running through the other options in his mind, a sleeping draught was the only thing he could come up with.

Feeling the gaze of the hostess on him for a moment, he further observed the guilty slide of her eyes when he gestured discreetly at Stephen's glass and smirked accordingly.

'_At least dinner comes with some form of entertainment,'_ he thought, tucking his napkin into his collar once the food arrived. _'Well done, Madeline.'_

Thankfully the concoction worked, for it combined with good food and a steady supply of wine poured its magic through the tycoon's body. The insulting man began to falter in his speech, yawning frequently and sliding down in his seat by the third course. By the time the birthday cake was brought out, Stephen Tyler had slumped over, lightly snoring through the toasts and happy birthday wishes. Revenge, like the creamy frosting on the cake, never tasted so sweet to Madeline before.

She hated leaving her friend to pick up the pieces of incapacitating the woman's husband, but with him being such a boorish brute and her being oblivious to it, she didn't feel too badly about the situation. Julianne was able to keep her happy façade up as she hauled Stephen out into a waiting cab with the help of the footman, bidding Madeline many happy birthdays as they departed. Nanny Ruth had to go as well, her aching bones acting up and preventing her from functioning properly.

"We'd better go as well," Watson said, extending his elbow to his wife and guiding her towards the door. Gladstone pattered down the hall, laying down abruptly in front of the wooden portal. Catching the detective's gaze, he jerked his head in an effort to convey that he should leave, too. Propriety dictated that he couldn't stay in the lady's house alone without a third party, but since when did he care for propriety?

"No," Holmes responded, draining the remaining dregs of wine from his glass. "Not before the lady has opened her presents. It seems that everyone but me has forgotten that we are celebrating _her_ birthday, after all."

Feeling a blush creep into her cheeks, Madeline bade her maid to get the gifts so she could open them in the company of her friends. For the first time all day, it really seemed like she was having a birthday. Twenty-seven…it was such an unimaginable age when she was younger, and nowadays she felt far older than she was. The years had passed by so quickly, and she almost didn't make it to this one. But thanks to the man occupying her settee, and the other standing off by the large window of the sitting room, she had. The least she could do was indulge in the detective's suggestion.

_**Good to be older…would not exchange a single day or a year…less complications…everything clear…living on borrowed time…**_

"Let's see…" she said, unwrapping the first. "New stationary and a pen with fresh nibs. Ruth always did like me to write. Next we have flowers from Constance, third is a gold watch and a bottle of French perfume."

"From your kind, Europe-traversing giant female companion, no doubt," Sherlock scoffed, wrinkling his nose when she sprayed some of it in the air.

"No doubt, indeed. A book of Robert Browning's poetry…thank you, John and Mary, I'm sure I'll love it."

"I-we, yes, we thought you might want something new to read, after exhausting all your personal literature during recovery," Mary stuttered, Watson hastily nodding at her side.

Madeline giggled, and then picked up Holmes' gift, the one that he almost couldn't get to her on time. It made him scramble across London and back just to purchase it, let alone engrave it. He leaned forward in his seat, face blank but body coiled in expectation. The package was long, a bit thin, and heavier than she would've guessed. An envelope was stuck to the top with some sort of adhesive, demanding that it be read before the gift was opened.

Pulling the card, she read Sherlock's fast scribble: _For all your future adventures.-S.H._

"Adventures?" she mused under her breath, the wheels in her brain turning rapidly. "This can't be what I think it is."

"You won't know for sure unless you open it," Holmes said, his leg starting to jiggle in anticipation.

"You didn't," she stammered, ripping off the brown packaging. A long, beautifully carved wooden box sat in her lap. "You didn't."

Releasing the solid clasps, she lifted the lid a tad, gasped upon viewing the gleaming contents, and slammed it down again.

"You didn't!" she denied, surprise lining her features. Leaning back, Holmes' sense of smug satisfaction rose considerably.

"Oh, I did."

"What in heaven's name did you get her, Holmes?" Watson barked, a little put off by the inconclusive half-speech between the two. Without a word, Madeline flipped the lid open, unveiling soft padding and a well-crafted rapier seated within. The Watsons were both dumbstruck. "You got her a _sword_?"

"Rapier," Holmes and St. James chimed together, the former grinning widely and the latter lifting the blade out of the box smoothly. It was wonderfully wrought, the knuckle guard made with three looping pieces of metal and the handle scored with several parallel marks. Etched into the forte was the name "Athos."

_**Now I am older…the future is brighter and now is the hour… Good to be older, would not exchange a single day or a year…**_

Her eyelids fluttered rapidly; he'd remembered that conversation, one of several she thought he would find trivial. She could hardly believe what was in her hand.

'…_I have no idea how to use this thing,'_ she thought, setting it back in its container. Unable to contain her beam, she strode forward and threw her arms around the detective, hugging him close.

"Thank you, thank you very much," she said, her words heartfelt. His strong arms circled around her, a little less hesitant than the first time they'd exchanged a friendly embrace.

"Should you ever want to learn how to fence, I know a fantastic instructor," he said once they'd parted. "I warn you, though: he's very demanding and utterly machine-like in his form."

Following him to the door, with sidelong good-byes to a stunned Mary and Watson, she nearly exploded with mirth.

"I care not! I would love to meet with him," she confessed, feeling truly scandalous. A woman fencing…and it would be her. What a novel idea! "Where would I find him?"

Readjusting his jacket and pulling on Gladstone's leash, Sherlock hovered just beyond the portal with a nonchalant glance at the top of the doorframe.

"I think he resides at 221B Baker Street. I'll tell him you're interested," he pronounced, turning his back on her overjoyed expression and climbing into the carriage with his other companions. Just as Madeline signaled her waiting butler to close the door, she heard Watson's shocked-yet-enraged shouts pouring out before the cab shot away.

"Why on _God's green Earth _did you give her a _sword_?"

* * *

**Author's note:** The American bashing is not to be taken seriously (I am American, after all); I just figured that if some people take jabs at the British, then they might make jabs at us. And friendship fluff...I love it to death! So if you don't like this chapter, sorry, but I really think it's nice to break from the drama and make things a tad bit happier every now and again. And if you find Holmes to be a tad OOC…sorry for that, too. From all the Holmes stories I've read, plus the film, I've come to the conclusion that he did have the ability to be a caring person…he was just rather selective to whom he showed it to and kept it buried deep down so he could think clearly. That's the impression I got, anyway. More to come soon, so thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you guys again next week!

PS: Yay for finals being over! Woo-hoo!


	13. I Know Him So Well

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "I Know Him So Well" from the musical _Chess _(in bold).

* * *

July 28th, 1891

"And…en garde!" Holmes commanded, flicking his blade into ready position. Madeline followed suit, fatigue weighing heavily on her.

"I can see why this sport is not encouraged at young ladies' schools," she huffed, allowing her rapier to beat against his slightly. Her combat clothes, as she dubbed them, was an old fencing uniform Sherlock found buried in a trunk in the attic, and he even found her a mask to protect her face. Anything that could protect her from gaining more damage to her body was preferable, she reflected. Sweat crawled down the back of her neck; she was grateful that her shorn hair had not lengthened much since it was first cut.

"Oh, perhaps we should change that. Insert swordplay between dance and elocution lessons, that would be somewhat acceptable, I think," joked Holmes, advancing towards her and attacking. She parried, dropping wordplay in favor of concentrating on the action.

A month into the strenuous practice, Madeline was showing definite promise as a fencer, provided she kept her emotion under control. It took awhile to get used to the terms, but it seemed simple enough once she linked the words to the forms. Riposte and lunge, remise and ballestra rolled easily through her brain. Definitely it was the emotion that would be her downfall in an actual battle. And Holmes, still an arrogant and devious man, would use it to his advantage despite being the teacher.

In all honesty, he didn't expect her to last past the first day of training, the literal day after her birthday. She'd shown up, rapier in hand and tutoring fee in her pocket. He'd refused the fee, and thrust trousers, a waistcoat and a shirt at her to change into. Once they started the work, her muscles stretched and tore in a way that they never had before. Running was a fun activity, but fencing involved every part of her body. Combined with her still-weak arm and leg, the day was just a horror physically. She wanted to learn, and the best way to do so was to get right into the work, he rationalized.

_**Nothing is so good it lasts eternally, perfect situations must go wrong, but this has never yet prevented me wanting far too much for far too long...**_

Madeline was thoroughly exhausted by the end, glaring fully at her friend and at one point saying he was bourgeois, bollock-loving bastard before promptly slumping on the ground to rest. He let the insults go; merely commenting on how women were such a delightful, unspiteful species, Holmes sat down next to her and they both chuckled at the banter.

In between his cases, he'd find the time to instruct on her form, and holding the blade, and attacking. Since there was absolutely no room at 221B to fight, they had to take a carriage down to a half-used warehouse. The owner owed Holmes a favor for solving the mystery of where his surplus supplies were going to, and so he paid it by letting the two spar in the space where the workers didn't go. Sometimes they'd draw a crowd, with them crowing for one or the other to win. Madeline was heckled quite a bit, simply for being a woman in a man's activity, but a few of the men were rooting for the day when she would best Holmes.

Which often seemed like she'd never be able to do so.

Holmes lunged forward, rocketing past her as she stepped out of the way quickly. His blade, though, came at her again, and she barely parried it.

"You have to attack at some point," Sherlock grunted, circling her slowly.

"Every time I do, you regain the upper hand," she wearily explained, trying to straighten her stance.

"Ah, are you attempting to tire me out, or goad me into a blindsided attack?"

Madeline bit her lip, struggling to keep her fury under wraps. Was her plan that transparent?

"So both then," he continued, raising his steel once more. "Allow me to enlighten you, ma'am. I have years of experience, so I don't tire easily or make mistakes."

"Everyone makes mistakes," she chided him, gripping the hilt hard in her right hand. He responded by flying at her again, his weight thrown into the move. She blocked it, but fell under the pressure. Now he was playing dirty, something else he was very good at. His argument for that was an opponent in today's world couldn't be held to Queensbury Rules (despite those rules being only applicable to boxing), and so one must always be prepared to deceitfully overpower the offender if one had no other choice.

'_He wants it that way? Fine!'_ she thought, sweeping her leg to the left and hooking it behind one of his knees. With a sharp pull, he dropped down on one leg and was incapacitated briefly. Taking advantage of his lost time, she sprang back onto her feet and lunged. The rapiers crashed and rang, a fluid dance of steel sweeping from one side to another. Holmes increased the speed of his weapon's dancing, and soon the movement was almost a hum. At one point, Madeline was absolutely lost, her muscle memory taking over the fight as she was figuring out what to do.

And then, she saw her opening. Pressing forward slightly, she caused their separate hilts to interlock, and with a substantial push she flung his blade out of his hands. Trouble is, her blade went along with his. They clattered some fifteen yards away, and the workers nearby were cheering and grumbling alternately.

The duo looked at each other, to the blades and back again, before making a mad dash to get to the rapiers first.

Madeline managed to gain a few steps, until Holmes grabbed her ankle and hauled her backward. She dropped down hard on her side, and Sherlock attempted to scoop up the weapons. However, the lady wouldn't let him have so easy a victory and instead got onto her feet once more and launched herself bodily at him. They tumbled to the dirt, and somehow one or the other caused them both to be dragged into a roll. Eventually they had somersaulted twenty feet past their mutual target, each intent on pinning the other down instead.

In the midst of the struggle, grunts turned into giggles, and punches turned into meaningless slaps. As they turned over and over, Holmes discovered that by jabbing a finger lightly in her ribs she was sent into hysterics.

"You ass!" Madeline chortled, right as Holmes got a hold of her arms and slammed them into the ground. His legs were on either side of hers, holding them together so she couldn't knee him in any sensitive areas. Unable to wriggle out from underneath him, she half-glared at him. His hilarity shown through his dark eyes as she groaned, "Damn…fine, I declare myself defeated."

"I'm so sorry, but I didn't quite hear you," he teased, turning his head slightly as if he would be able to understand her words better that way.

"I said, you win."

He snorted. "I don't believe the men up in the rafters can hear you either."

Madeline arched her back slightly, trying to pull loose. Being held down by her highly intelligent, quite strong, highly attractive friend was rapidly expelling her amusement.

"Do you want me to start screaming 'assault', Sherlock? Because I could do that…" she muttered, looking past him to the rafters, the roof, anywhere but his face.

Smirking, Holmes let her limbs go and rose to his feet. Holding out a hand, he waited until she'd brushed herself off before assisting her up. Patting her shoulder abruptly, he turned away to gather up the rapiers.

_**Looking back I could have played it differently, won a few more moments; who can tell?**_

"I must say, you're improving," he confided loudly, sheathing his blade. Pulling out a handkerchief, he began to wipe the sweat and dirt off his face while continuing, "At least, quite well for someone who was a cripple two months ago."

"I thank you, sir," she murmured sarcastically, searching for her protective mask which had been flung off during the scuffle. Once it was found, she went to Holmes and snatched her blade from him.

"Truly, you've done far better than I had originally expected. Think for a moment; could you have imagined possibly engaging in such a vigorous activity in June? No," Sherlock answered for her, "I know you couldn't have. And you're certainly no master, but given some time, you may prove quite good at the endeavor."

Madeline blinked, taken aback by the outpouring of confidence. It wasn't often that Holmes gave a true compliment, without it being backhanded in some way. Her mouth, parted slightly, opened more for her to speak, but he pivoted on his heel and strode away. Effectively cutting her off, he waved towards her direction.

"Come now, lessons are over for today, madam. If you so wish, we may have time to get to our respective homes and change into evening wear to see the opera with Watson and Mary."

She smiled brightly at that, trotting after him. "How could I resist such an invitation?"

In spite of her soreness and hasty dressing, Madeline had a grand time at the opera with Sherlock, John, and Mary. After a good three years of only letters and telegrams with her school chums, it was nice to rely on another set of people for outings in the City. Granted, one of them didn't know when to stop being analytical (going so far as to inform the gentleman in the row ahead of them that perhaps he shouldn't be visiting the East End to find an escort for the show, which nearly resulted in a brawl during Act Three), but she finally had "adult" friends all the same. Julianne and Constance were dear sisters, Nanny a mother; companions were what she needed. Dinner was had after the enchanting show, with it actually going swimmingly and without Holmes' brand of cheerful disruption. Contrary to her original thoughts, he did know how to behave when it was required of him. In any case, she definitely knew better now, and came to expect the unexpected.

…_**It took time to understand the man…now at least I know I know him well…**_

**xXxXxXx**

July 29th, 1891

The next day, Madeline briskly walked from her home toward Baker Street, staying very close to the buildings lining the roads. She would never try outrunning a carriage again; next time, she would duck into the nearest house and stay put. As luck would have it, no cabs clipped by her, and so she began to relax. Forever she would be tense walking the streets of London, no matter how many years would pass since the "incident", as she dubbed it. Tying the sword and its sheath tighter around her waist, she never saw the woman crossing right into her path.

"Oh, dear me!" she spluttered when the woman tripped and fell. "I am sorry, I was preoccupied. Do forgive me."

"That's quite alright," the other lady said, her American accent cutting through the air. Her wide smile did not seem genuine, even though it had a way of lighting up her bright blue eyes. Dark brunette hair spilled out of her hat, knock off kilter thanks to Madeline's lack of depth perception. Some dust had gathered on the woman's pretty yellow gown, but it was nothing that couldn't be wiped away.

"Here, let me help you up," Madeline said, thoroughly embarrassed and holding out her hand. The lady gripped her finger tightly and hauled herself up, meanwhile staring unabashedly at her. "I, uh…"

"Aren't you that woman who brought her maid to trial for attempted murder in June?" the American asked bluntly. "Pardon my bad manners, but isn't that you? I saw your picture in the newspapers."

Wincing, Mrs. St. James nodded. The other woman glanced to her right, and a twinge of recognition caught in Madeline's throat when the American's face was in profile. Where had she seen this woman before?

"Yes, that was me. I am Mrs. Madeline St. James. What is your name?"

The dark brunette shrugged. "Just Miss Irene Adler, although I was a Missus Something-Or-Other in the recent past."

"Ah," Madeline responded, unsure of what to say. "Well, Miss Adler, I was completely unaware that my picture ever made its way to the press. I've nothing that reminds of the trial."

Adler had the grace to at least look mortified. "I didn't mean to cause you discomfort. I just thought-"

'_Americans,' _St. James thought acidly. Aloud she cut in, "It's no issue, miss."

They chatted lightly, with Irene pointing out the novelty of the rapier attached to Madeline's waist, and the minor details of the trial. When the subject turned to the detective who'd saved her life, the British woman noted a hard veil descending over the American one's eyes. Privately she fancied this Adler knew Holmes in some way.

"What do you think of the man? I can hardly run into anyone who doesn't have some opinion on him," she queried, wanting to break past the barriers. Adler would have none of it, though.

"I think he's brilliant, like I've read that he is in the reports and the new tales put forth by Dr. Watson in the Strand."

'_A very genial, generic response.'_ "That's all?"

Wistfulness creased Irene's face. "I find it hard to hold an accurate judgment of Sherlock Holmes when I am not close to him."

Her head whipped around, seemingly at the sound of a vendor's bell ringing across the street, but Madeline caught the second part of her statement nearly lost in the clamber around them.

"Not as close as I once thought…"

_**No one in your life is with you constantly, no one is completely on your side, and though I move my world to be with him, still the gap between us is too wide…**_

"Excuse me?" This conversation was getting interesting, and she wanted to get more information.

Irene gave her a shallow grin. "I said that I simply must be going. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. St. James."

"Likewise, Miss Adler."

The woman in the golden gown nearly sprinted away, melting into the hoi polloi easily and losing Madeline. Confusion roiled in her mind, and so she decided to bypass her need to keep up her training by indulging her desire to get answers from Sherlock himself. Returning to her journey, she made perfect time, getting to the Baker Street residence just as Mrs. Hudson was going out the door. The older woman greeted her happily, her face growing melancholy when asked about Holmes' well-being. He was in his normal mood of experimenting (the new trick was to explore the variations of some sort of compound, neither woman was sure), but he'd received another visitor at the door himself, and they were closed off for forty-five minutes from the rest of the world. Hudson could hear nothing above a whisper, but by the time the female guest left (_'Aha! Getting somewhere.'_) Holmes sunk in a sullen depression, sitting on the floor for a good hour without moving.

"I'll go and check on him, don't you worry, Mrs. Hudson," Madeline tried to reassure her.

The housekeeper gave her a strained grin. "And here I thought I'd be stranded to carry the can on my own without the good doctor. Thank you, my dear."

Ascending the staircase, and feeling a bit powerful for being able to walk up them on her own, St. James stood just beyond the door and listened carefully for any signs of life. All she heard was the ticking of the clock on the wall, and so she knocked on the door.

"Holmes?"

No response. _Knock-knock-knock._

"Holmes, are you there?"

A low grumble managed to seep through the wood. Resolving to risk his potential fury, she turned the handle and stepped into the room. It was still in disarray, like it had always been, but a table had been pulled out and two chairs sat at its edges. A pamphlet sat alone on the table, spewing scrawled notes and a couple of photographs. Sherlock, however, was not seated there. He was right where Mrs. Hudson had left him: sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at a picture propped on the ground in front of him. He was unkempt as he usually was in his home, unshaven and wearing the ratty old smoking jacket he favored so much. Lazily his eyes traveled across the room, up the skirt of Madeline's violet dress to her concerned visage.

"I don't see why you're worried, I am not dead, after all," he muttered, his gaze latching back onto the photograph. "I am in no mood to teach today."

"I can see that," she replied dryly, untying the sheath belt and letting the rapier drop to the floor. It would do no good pointing out that as a compatriot, she had a right to be bothered about his mood swings concerning a woman. Especially if was about a female; he had hardly any contact with other members of her species besides her, and so it unsettling to observe his ruffled feathers. The action did not cause him to look at her, but she would be remiss in assuming he wasn't paying attention. "Mrs. Hudson told me you had a woman here, and that you were upset once she left."

"Not _a_ woman," he corrected her, "_The _woman. She was The Woman. And I am not in any way upset. I am…rather in a contemplative state of mind."

"Well, thank you for clarifying, that changes things considerably," she stated, closing the door finally.

Circling around him, she was able to get a closer look at the photograph before he slammed it face-down on the floorboards. Dark hair, light eyes, and a face she'd seen only before arriving.

No wonder she thought she recognized Irene; she was the woman in the picture! She'd looked at the photograph so many times during her recovery, it was ridiculous that she didn't remember Adler right off. And she'd caught Holmes occasionally toying with it, the image capturing his mind long enough for him to not notice Madeline's curious gazes when he did so.

_**He needs his fantasy and freedom…**_

Setting herself down right next to him, she had some difficulty adjusting her legs underneath the skirt. She met his frank glower with a blank look of her own. Seconds went by, and the silence grew more and more insufferable.

Finally, the detective croaked, "Haven't you anything else to say?"

She shook her head, though her mind was screaming questions. "No."

"Liar. You always have questions. Aren't you going to ask about it at all?"

Idly pushing up her sleeves, she just shrugged. "I may be inquisitive, but there are topics that I will not breach without consent. This, clearly, is one of those topics, as you don't want to talk about it."

His frown deepened. "That trick will not work on me."

"There's no trick, Sherlock. You don't want me to ask, so I won't."

"Fine."

"Very well then."

They sat side by side for another ten minutes, their eyes flying everywhere but towards each other. Then out of nowhere, his right shoulder started resting against her left one, his defenses deflating slowly. Every couple of minutes or so, he allowed a simple statement to flow out. Irene was her name. She was from New Jersey. She was an actress-turned-criminal. Adler had been married over nine times. She and Holmes had a summer of passion before her fourth marriage. She was employed by his greatest enemy, but she was Holmes' informer now. Irene wanted him to run away with her.

"She came to me today, and tried to make me go away with her again," he finished, scratching the stubble on his cheek. "You can wager what my answer was."

There were hundreds of thing he would never tell her about Irene, but Madeline comfortable with not knowing. She did not speak at all during this time, rather she let him just talk when he wanted. The moment she would ask anything, she knew he would never continue the subject, so she buttoned her lip and nodded at the appropriate times. One question nagged her mind, refusing to be put away.

"Do you love her, Sherlock?" she inquired softly, tilting the picture back up so they could both see it. Hoping to gauge his physical reaction to the image, she found none save for his jaw clenching momentarily.

"…I have no idea the meaning of the word. I miss her when she's gone, I certainly like the challenge she poses, I want to protect her from the fiend Moriarty, but love?"

Holmes cupped his chin with his hand.

"I am unsure how I feel about her at all."

Madeline cleared her throat, taking in this knowledge. "To be fair, you're unsure how you feel about anything."

His eyebrow jumped up at that, but said nothing.

"Holmes, I'm fairly certain you need to think long and hard on this matter, if you're unsure about it. My advice to you is-"

"Aye, advice that I do not ask for."

"-Look at your past actions, examine your present ones, and weigh in all the facts. But you'll have to listen to this," she spoke over him, and then tapped his chest right where his heart resided beneath the muscle and skin. "If you love her, your answer will be there. If you don't, you need to work towards a solution. Leaving it unresolved won't help you. Moping won't help you."

"I wasn't moping," he countered, the glow returning to his dark eyes. She knew, though, that he had at least listened to part of what she said, if not all of it.

"Right, and pigs are sprouting wings to take flight," she snickered, patting his forearm and rising from the floor. There was no more she could do for her friend, and so she decided it would be best if she let him sort everything out on his own. Upon grabbing the rapier from its spot, she glanced back at him. Now, he was watching her, the gaping never wavering. Taking sure steps back over to him, she bent at the waist and gave him a friendly good-bye kiss on the cheek. "Please, think about it."

He was positively gawking at her, and she was a bit afraid that his eyeballs would fall out of their sockets. With a small curtsy, she bade him good-bye and exited the domicile. As she rounded the staircase, Madeline inwardly smiled; her nonexistent trick had worked, and she wondered how long it would take Holmes to figure that out. With any luck, her companionable overtones would gloss it over, and he would instead heed her advice.

_**It took time to understand him…I know him so well.**_

Mrs. St. James didn't look back when she left the house, but if she had, she would've seen the man standing at the window, viewing her departure and stewing over the afternoon's events.

* * *

**Author's note:** Ok, another long chapter out. Thanks to Isis for inspiring me to write in the fencing, I hope I did alright with it. Yay Madeline, for helping Holmes with the "Irene Problem" (she really is a problem, truly)! Thanks for reading, I'd appreciate reviews, and another update will happen in about a week. See ya then! (Oh, and go take the poll on my author page. It concerns Mr. Sherlock Holmes…and it's just for fun. Check it out!)


	14. Wonderful Tonight

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "Wonderful Tonight" by Eric Clapton (in bold).

* * *

August 24th, 1891: 4:15 PM

"Madeline!"

The poor woman groaned, knowing full well that Sherlock Holmes was calling. Of all the times he had to drop decorum, it had to be during a bustling summer day on a busy street. So much for tarrying at the bookshop across the road from her friend's residence, she thought to herself. On such a beautiful day at the end of the summer, she fully intended to draw her friend out of his stale apartment, but it appeared he had other designs.

"My dear lady!" the detective's voice boomed from the upstairs window. "Madeline St. James! Come in at once!"

A hundred eyes turned to look at her semi-mortified face, but she brushed them off. Madeline shook her head, crossing the busy road of Baker Street hurriedly. She had already promised a social visit outside of fencing practice for this day some time ago, and now she wasn't certain if it was a good idea anymore. Gathering up her skirt, she hastily padded through the entrance and nodded hello to the housekeeper. Take the steps in quick strides, she noted smugly that she was fully recovered as she skipped every second stair.

"Now what is so urgent that…" she started, not bothering to knock before going through the door. However, Madeline trailed off in her tirade when she saw a most peculiar sight: Holmes was absolutely clean and dressed in his best. Pressed shirt, cravat, jacket with tails, the whole deal. His dark hair was washed, combed, and styled into place. The ever-present stubble she'd gotten used to seeing peppered on his cheeks and chin were shaved away. The distinct smell of cologne was in the air, and a cane was clutched in his right hand. Only until her teeth snapped together did she realize her mouth had been hanging open.

He raised an eyebrow before saying, "Would you mind shutting the door behind you, please?"

Blindly complying, Madeline managed to gasp out the words, "I believe I must be underdressed for afternoon tea."

Sherlock smirked. "No, you're underdressed for the end-of-summer ball at the house of Sir Arthur Camden."

"I suppose so," she replied, before blinking and shaking her head in confusion. "Wait, a ball? When did I agree to this?"

"You didn't. But as I've received the invitation this morning, and I am loathe to attend such an affair without a guest to keep me sane, I thought you might agree to fraternizing with the peerage."

Madeline seated herself on the step ladder, as the nearest chair was occupied by a massive carpet bag.

"How did you retain such an invitation?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest.

"Excellent question. I may have cleaned up some affairs in Scotland Yard for the man, procuring his thanks in the form of this social request. And so I dressed beforehand so we can take you back to your home to change into your best faire."

"You never struck me as a cotillion kind of man, Holmes."

Grinning, he turned to pocket some banknotes. "I'm not, but as the man is associated with another man who is a suspect in my latest case, I feel the pressing need to do some onsite investigation. And who better to provide a distraction than a pretty girl that could possibly make the suspect look the other way for a moment?"

She snorted and frowned, turning bright red. "You flatter me, Holmes, really. You do realize I've not consented to this at all, correct?"

"And what's to keep you from saying 'no'?" he queried facetiously. "Previous engagement?"

"No."

"Calling on friends?"

"No, again."

His face held a look of complete triumph. "Then why not indulge me? Shall I be forced to call upon Watson? I don't think he'd fancy being forced into a corset and dress."

Snickering, Madeline shook her head yet again. "I think he would be quite insulted to play the female."

"Is that assent I hear in your voice?" he asked hopefully. "It would be a dreadfully boring place to be on my own. Who knows what I would have to do to keep myself entertained?"

"It's a begrudging assent, Holmes," she wearily sighed. "I shudder to think what could happen were you left to your devices there."

Only recently had she'd heard the story of one night earlier in the month that Watson went with Holmes on an outing to a client's home and, once he'd received his accolades, the sleuth had wandered off and accidently set the library there on fire. The doctor kept shooting death glares at Holmes when she went on a walk through the park with them two days after the incident, his eyebrows showing signs of singeing and Sherlock sporting an ash mark on his forehead, but neither would speak on the subject until a few weeks had passed.

"Very well, then. We best get you back to your home to dress. The invitation says that the festivities begin at eight o'clock, and it may take you that long to ready yourself," Holmes muttered, hauling up the carpet bag and shooing her down the staircase. Catching his last remark, she completely ignored the curious presence of the bag and placed her hands on her hips.

"It will not take me that long to dress!"

"You're a woman. And women, I have found, take hours to prepare for events that could only last a good forty-five minutes."

"…That's not totally right," she shot back, nodding again at Mrs. Hudson and going out to flag down a cab. Sherlock smiled, skirting around her.

"But it's not entirely wrong, is it?"

"Don't make me use my sleeping powder on you, too, Holmes."

**xXxXxXx**

7:45 PM

As much as it annoyed her to prove Sherlock right, it did end up taking three hours to dress and prepare for the ball. The gown she'd decided on was a light pink, with roses delicately trailing from the waist of the skirt down to the hem. With her hair swept up off her neck, it was easy to hide the butchered cut of it. Another rose was laced into her hair for effect, but other than that, she wore no jewelry or decoration of any kind. It was something Holmes stipulated, and so she was suspicious of that, but Madeline refrained from commenting. Rather she just tried to make herself presentable, elegant…things she never really felt she was. Dusting some powder on the stitch scars on her arms, she wondered maybe if cerulean gloves went with pastel pink.

_**It's late in the evening; she's wondering what clothes to wear.**_

"Hurry, woman! Time is of the essence!" came Holmes' gruff voice from the ground floor sitting room, creaking floorboards indicating his movement. The man had utterly no patience for this sort of thing, she'd come to realize. Bracing herself, Madeline sat still and waited as he bounded up the stairs and past the indignant maid to barge into her room. The door swung open, and only then did she rise from the seat in front of her vanity. As she flushed scarlet, he in turn staggered back and almost appeared to pale underneath his dark tan; his eyes raked over her body, taken aback from her drastic change from average Londoner to true beauty.

"Well, since you just plowed through my door, will you give me your honest opinion about how I look?" she lightly reprimanded him, performing a small twirl to let the gown flare out slightly.

"…You look…different," he choked out, cocking his head to the left. "Quite an improvement over the sweat-stained fencing togs."

"I'll take that as a compliment. Shall we, then?" Madeline murmured, a bit pleased despite the smart-mouth comment tagged on to the end. Motioning out her now-dented door, she supplied, "Forgive me, I did not want my scars to be the topic of the evening."

Diverting his gaze to the powder, he nodded. "I understand. It is simply that we must be there no later than 8:15."

_**And then she asks me, "Do I look all right?"…and I say, "Yes, you look wonderful tonight."**_

'_What are you planning, Sherlock?'_ she thought, allowing herself to be guided carefully down the stairs into yet another waiting carriage. Within twenty minutes, they made it to Camden's house, and were greeted enthusiastically by the man in the grand foyer. The house was truly a mansion, built to show off the man newfound wealth. It seemed that Holmes had discovered through mislaid clues and misquoted workers, Sir Arthur, accused of fraud, was actually innocent of any insurance swindle. As he was framed, Camden had rehired Holmes to discover who set him up, suspecting it to be his partner. The detective had debriefed Madeline on the ride over, intent on searching through Mr. Langdon's belongings in the shared office on the third floor.

"And where is he now?" Sherlock asked the host, putting on a show of smiles for anyone who would chance passing by. Camden followed suit, waving at a tall, red-headed man standing off to the side in the ballroom. He resembled a rat in appearance: beady eyes, elongated nose that twitched, sharp teeth. Langdon seemed to be repulsive in general; it was a wonder that Camden could find the stomach to work with the man.

"Right there, that's where the foul fiend is," he replied snidely, his guise threatening to drop. "He claims he will only stay down here for a half hour at most, and then go up to the office again. Are you certain you can find anything on him, Mr. Holmes?"

"I'll discover something, I'm sure."

"And tell me, who are you escorting this evening?" Camden changed tack, noticing the lady in pink clutching onto the sleuth's arm. Pressing his hand against the small of her back, Sherlock propelled her forward.

Allowing the host to take her hand, she responded, "Madeline…Madeline Rogers."

Holmes hid his curiosity well, until the introductions and well-wishings were finished and they departed for the ballroom. Dipping his head closer to her ear so he could heard clearly, he asked her to reveal why she'd used her maiden name with Camden. She shrugged, not wholly sure of the reasons. Perhaps it was because she didn't want to be known as "The Carriage Lady", as she'd been dubbed by the newspapers, and therefore be put in the spotlight at the party. Maybe it was so she could not be held accountable for the actions that Holmes was about to make her do; that way, no one would find a Madeline Rogers if they hunted for someone to blame.

'_Or perhaps it's time to let the past go. Simon has been dead for three years. I won't be the wife of a dead man forever.'_

The man at the door announced them, at Sherlock's behest, as Mr. Holton Stamford and Miss Madeline Rogers, and once the crowd's collective gaze fluttered over them, they received the unsaid affirmative to enter.

_**We go to a party and everyone turns to see this beautiful lady that's walking around with me.**_

"So what do you need me to do?" she said aloud, maneuvering past a woman with peacock feathers jutting out at odd angles. Holmes grinned falsely at the woman, leading Madeline out across the dance floor. Pulling her into an impromptu waltz alongside six other couples, his eyes covertly scanned the crowd.

"At precisely 8:20, you are going to start arguing with me. Doesn't matter about what, just make it convincing. The quarrel will escalate accordingly, until I shout that I will not take any further abuse from you. I will then leave the ballroom, offended by your lack of propriety-"

She laughed, nearly forgetting the steps of the dance. "Oh, my lack of propriety?"

"Yes," he rejoined, sweeping her to the left. "It will appear as though I am going to collect my faculties and calm myself. I will, in fact, be searching the upstairs office. In the meantime, you, feeling bereaved and guilty, will rely on Mr. Sherman Langdon to soothe your distress. He's a known…erm, chivalrous gentleman, as it were."

"I see. Is there anything specific you need for me to say or do at that time?" she said, seriousness outlining her face.

"Keep his wine glass full and his attention on you for thirty minutes. That's all the time I can allow for this."

The small band finished with the waltz, and the crowd surrounding the floor applauded the dancers. Curtsying to her partner, Madeline quirked up an eyebrow.

"Eager to get away from the ball early, 'Holton'?"

He performed a shallow bow, shooting her a quick wink. "In a manner of speaking, yes."

As she turned away and left him on the floor, a sudden thought occurred to her: she was actually assisting Holmes with a case. Granted, she wasn't actively participating like Watson always had, but she was lending aid to _the_ Sherlock Holmes. It was a mildly exciting thought…she just wished she didn't have to be a form of bait, using her womanliness to throw the suspect off the scent. Quickly a group of ladies descended upon her, asking her all sorts of questions about her escort. They all thought the duo was in the process of wooing, that "Holton" was her "beau". She almost chuckled, but held it firmly down. They women could think what they wanted, since it wouldn't affect anything at all in any case.

"Oh, I don't-" she tried to correct one lady, a girl who couldn't have been more than sixteen years old if a day.

"I can see it plain as day, he hasn't taken his eyes off you for a moment!" the girl responded, pointing her fan discreetly in Holmes' direction. Indulging in the teenager's misguided notion, she flicked her gaze across the room, and caught Sherlock watching her. Seeing that he'd grabbed her attention, he slowly loosened his cravat, and raised it little by little while no one was looking. The ladies kept chattering around her, unaware of what the gentleman by the violinists was doing. Tilting his head to the side and letting his tongue loll out of his mouth, he made it appear as though he was being hanged by the garment, like he wanted to kill himself out of sheer boredom.

Madeline abruptly snorted, excusing herself from the gaggle of women when they asked her what was so funny about the death of Mrs. Connelly's canary. Glancing at the ornate clock at the end of the hall, she knew the time had come to "argue" with her escort. Pacing over to the floor, she timidly tugged on Holmes' jacket, causing him to turn and "notice" her there.

"Yes, my dear?" he asked, sounding a trifle smashed. The empty glass leant credence to the façade, and if she didn't know him any better, she'd think him on his way to being thoroughly drunk.

"I thought we'd agreed that you would give sobriety a chance," she muttered, stumbling upon a fuse to light. Her companion did not disappoint, picking up on the act right away.

"No, _you _agreed. _I _never declared that I would give up the creature," he guffawed mirthlessly, dropping the glass onto a passing waiter's tray and swiping another one. "What's the harm in it?"

"I'll tell you the harm: it will cause you to forget yourself. Need I remind you what happened to my mother's new patterned tablecloth?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed significantly; the tablecloths were always an untouchable point in everyday conversation, and once taken to the imaginary quarrel stage, it became almost taboo. And so they sniped back and forth, her struggling to keep her voice low and him raising his to the rooftops. After three rounds of chastisement, Holmes threw his hands in the air, splattering his drink onto the previously clean dance floor, and yelled about her being a nagging shrew. Applying a mask of shock, Madeline tried to force out some tears when he said he was going to step out for a moment. Everyone tried to pretend they couldn't hear or see anything, but soon enough the place was abuzz with titillating gossip. Slinking off to the side, Madeline put herself directly in the path of Mr. Langdon, who was on his way out. That is, he was going to go until the light brunette's pleading looks drew him over.

Proffering a handkerchief, the rat-faced man gaped at her sympathetically.

"Here. Will you be alright, miss?"

Dabbing her eyes, she worked her voice up a couple of pitches. "I, I, I think so. It's just that he promised…"

The red-head listened to her, intrigued by her woes with "Holton" and pressing herself closer and closer. She noted with glee that Langdon had trouble swallowing, and that his beady eyes were entranced by her flushed pink appearance. All the while, though, she viewed the clock and had the wine glass in his hand replaced with a fresh one every time it was emptied. The minutes ticked by, with her easing into nonsensical chatter and a short dance with the abhorrent man to pass the time. Sure enough, at 8:50 Sherlock emerged from the shadows, a triumphant glean in his eyes. He stood back, avoiding the crowds and beckoning her over whenever her head turned his way.

"I must go, Sher-uh, Holton's waiting," Madeline whispered, stopping Langdon in his tracks. Before she'd taken two steps, his thin fingers locked around her wrist. Enough with simpering sad act, she decided. Pivoting on her heel, she told him icily, "Sir, I have to ask you to release me."

"You mustn't go back to him, he'll hurt you even more," he uttered passionately. "Just think about it."

"Mr. Langdon, I appreciate your concern. Truly, it's sweet," Madeline said, nearly gagging on the words, "but apart from the use of your handkerchief and your kindness, you have no reason to judge this affair at all."

Wrenching her arm out of his grasp, she dropped a curtsy and scurried to the outer hall, Holmes shuffling ahead to get their coats. The tapping of shoes behind her indicated Langdon's tracking her to the entrance. Her nerves began to get the better of her, and when the detective stepped forward from behind a pillar and pulled her to him, she had to choke down a yelp of surprise. Immediately the red-headed suspect started backpedaling, subdued by Sherlock's somewhat infuriated dark brown gaze.

_**It's time to go home now and I've got an aching head…**_

"Shall we?" he said drily, wrapping her coat around her and slipping his arms into his own sleeves. With one more possessive glance darting over the fallen pursuer, Holmes curled an arm around Madeline waist and walked her out the door. "A bit assertive, isn't he?"

"He felt we weren't a good match, that's for certain," she muttered, shivering despite the heat of the night. Briefly Holmes' arm constricted on her waist, and then he let her go. Desperate to change the subject, she continued, "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Indeed. My evidence was gathered and stowed in the carriage within the thirty minutes. It seems Mr. Langdon is looking at a few years in the penitentiary for his part of the framing," Holmes conceded, tapping his recently retrieved cane keenly against the cobblestones. "You did well, dear Madeline, very well."

_**And then I tell her… I say, "My darling, you were wonderful tonight…"**_

The carriage finally clattered up to them, and Madeline jumped into quickly. She definitely did not want to go to another high-class ball anytime soon. The carpet bag bounced into the seat next her, followed swiftly by Holmes. The horses began to gallop, racing towards their destination.

"We have one more stop before going home, Mrs. St. James," he announced, shucking off the cravat and jackets.

"What?" she crowed in disbelief, her eyes grow wider as he pulled out a semi-dirtied frock for her use.

"It's not often I'm attempting to close two cases in one night," he explained, donning a ripped waistcoat. "But it is imperative to my livelihood that I do so. Care to help me in one more endeavor tonight?"

A short silence descended, with Madeline alternately marveling at Sherlock's duplicity and wanting to strangle the man. The battle raged in her mind for a moment, and then she deflated.

"…Give me the frock. We're pulling over long enough to allow me to change," she demanded, grabbing the garment out of the sleuth's nimble fingers.

* * *

**Author's note:** Aha, this but Part One of the night's adventures! Where is Sherlock taking them? What is the other case he needs to work on? How did Madeline not strangle him for deciding that she should be dragged along for the night's long ride? Well, that last one I can't answer entirely, but the first two will be dealt with next week! Thanks for reading, I hope you review, and I'll see you guys later!


	15. Last Call

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "Last Call" by Dave Van Ronk (in bold).

* * *

August 24th, 1891: 9:04 PM

Hastily Holmes complied with Madeline's request, ordering the carriage driver to pull off on the nearest side street so she could change clothes. Conveniently they had passed by a closed milliner's shop, and with a quick lock pick, Madeline was inside and tugging at the rosy fabric clinging steadfastly to her body. The detective waylaid the driver, convincing him that it was his shop and that they just needed to pause for the "little lady" to get something from the office for him.

"Damn, damn, damn," she cursed under her breath, fighting against her layers and the evil contraption called a corset for a good twenty minutes in the dark. A regular dress would hardly be a problem, but a ball gown was at minimum a two to three person struggle, when one also had decent lighting as well. The sound of cloth ripping rang out abruptly, and she found herself blanching in horror. "Oh no…"

"Not to rush or anything, but I would like to keep to my schedule somewhat," Sherlock's voice hissed on the other side of the door. "Especially since I'm toeing the line of legality just for your dressing."

"Hush up," she groused irritably, muttering incoherently about the stupidity of the entire situation and just tearing the gown off completely. It was already somewhat destroyed, she reasoned to herself. Shedding the hoop cage, underskirt, and bustle were a walk in the park compared to the earlier work. Eventually she was dressed in the navy-colored frock, and then gathered up all her articles from the pitch-black floor.

"That took entirely too long," Holmes remarked tiredly, still leaning against the door frame after she'd exited the building. "Even with the layers, it should not have taken you nearly twenty-five minutes to get it off."

"How would you know? Have you ever removed a ball gown all on your own, Holmes?" she snorted, brushing past him and throwing the clothes in the cab. A pregnant pause followed, and Madeline turned widening eyes onto her friend who was looking at her hairline rather than her face. "…You have, haven't you?"

"Time to press on," he murmured, ignoring her not-entirely-inaccurate accusation. As he strode forward, she got a better look at his ensemble in the lamplight. He'd dirtied his trousers since she'd gone in to change, and exchanged his patent leather shoes for some scuffed workman's boots. The pressed shirt was ruffled underneath the tattered waistcoat, and the brown overcoat was frayed and had patches all over. Brandishing a knife, presumably after pulling it out of thin air, Holmes grabbed her skirt and made a cut on the hem.

"What on Earth?" she gasped, shrieking when he tugged the fabric and split it, ending the rip at her kneecap. Sheathing the knife, his hands tore into her hair, mussing it up further and knocking the decorative rose from its perch. Deftly she caught it, tucking it into her pocket for safekeeping. "Stop it! Get away from my hair!"

Not heeding her words, he only stopped when she gave him a harsh shove backwards. Being the stronger of the two, he didn't go very far, but he got the hint finally. Bending down, he ran his fingers across the dirt-encrusted cobblestones and darkened his face with the stuff. When he finished, he seemed to mull over something, and then he reached out towards her face. Lightly, he traced a smudge over her left cheekbone and then stepped back to admire his work.

"You look wretched," he announced, placing his hands on his hips. Madeline's green eyes flared in annoyance.

"Thank you for the compliment," she growled sarcastically, pushing her tangled tresses out of her face.

"It's the best I could do," Holmes replied wearily, motioning her back into the cab. "After all, we've got a short amount of time to work with, and a disguise is somewhat necessary for where we're going."

"You're not even disguise. You donned ratty clothes and put dirt on your face, but that's nothing new."

"Ah, but I have more tricks up my sleeve."

Her eyes glanced at the seat across from her. "More like in your carpet bag."

"Quite right." With that, he climbed into the carriage and they set off down the streets of London once more. Fishing out a needle and thread, he passed them on to his perturbed companion to sew up her skirt. He certainly didn't intend on her walking through the slums with a slit; he wanted her to look poor, but certainly not like a woman of ill repute. For his part, he pulled out a jar of reddish paste.

Glimpsing the jumbled contents of the bag with some interest, Madeline wondered, "What else is in there, Holmes? A complete tea service, perhaps?"

"Not yet," he responded, dipping his hands in the jar and lathering the red paste through his hair. "Once I evacuate the horse stables, there shall be room enough for one, though."

"Certainly smells like there are horses within," she whispered, catching a whiff when she leaned closer to look at everything. The sewing was slow-going, especially since she was not inclined towards needlework in general. But that was precisely what was needed: a homemade repair that was obviously not done by a professional.

"Stop! Stop the cab!" Holmes yelled a few minutes later, his hair flaming red and flying in the wind when he stuck his head out the cab's window. Immediately the driver halted the horses, no doubt grumbling about the strange people he was servicing that night. The detective, upon helping the lady out once more, tipped him extra to take the bag and dress back to 221B. Then the man seemed a bit more chipper as he clattered away.

Surveying her surroundings, Madeline could see that they were dumped out a stone's throw away from the East End. Automatically she latched onto Holmes' arm, clenching him in a death grip. She only prayed that they weren't in Whitechapel; the heinous murders done by Jack the Ripper were only three years ago, after all.

"Why didn't you tell me we'd end up here?" she demanded her companion to explain. Placing his hand against the small of her back to get her to move, he realized quickly she wouldn't budge until he spoke.

"Would you have come had I told you?"

"That is not the bloody point!" she swore, digging her nails into his arm. He winced slightly as the pressure increased.

"It's quite obvious, is it not? I was hired to find a criminal, and my singular suspect happens to be someone from Bethnal Green. But the only way I can apprehend him is if we get moving. It should not be too difficult, and require no great effort on your part. You will be perfectly safe with me."

She glared, but started walking. "Fine, but if I'm murdered by a devil named Jack, I'll come back as a ghost and haunt you for the remainder of your days."

"A frightening prospect indeed," Holmes rejoined, pleased that she was going along with it. Watching her out of the corner of his eye, he continued, "Slouch. You'll be spotted at once as high society if you keep your back ramrod straight."

Her shoulders automatically slumped. "Very well."

"Don't speak properly, either. Where we're going, they are not fully educated in phonetics."

"Aye, gov, whoteva you say," she tried, the words grating on her ears. Sherlock scowled at her sentence.

"Perhaps you should speak minimally. And one more fing, m'dear," he said, adopting Cockney tones. "Don' be too bleedin' 'oity-toity wif ev'ryun we meet down 'ere. Jus' keep yer 'ead down, and yer oyes open."

Her brow creased as confusion spread on her features, but she just nodded and kept walking. He further explained that she was part of his cover. For the last three weeks, he'd been staking out the suspect's most frequented haunt under the guise of a dock worker. The crime went unnamed, but she inferred by the hints Holmes laced into the conversation that the man had done something monstrous. During those three weeks the man had not shown up, but Sherlock deduced that once the hullabaloo around the case died down, he would go back to his daily routine and seek out the place once again. And so he had, three days ago.

"And what exactly is this place, Holmes?" Madeline asked softly, hoping the tottering couple that just passed them didn't hear her.

**xXxXxXx**

10:37 PM

The place, it turned out, was a pub and gambling den. Card tables were set up all over the room, littered with every imaginable sort of ruffian one could find on London's pathways. Broken, beaten bodies were sprawled upon all available surface, each one having quaffed a pint too many.

_**And so we've had another night **__**of poetry and poses**__**, **__**and each man knows he'll be alone **__**when the sacred gin mill closes…**_

Here, Holmes was known as "Tommy Flanders", a man with a personality as on fire as his hair. He was a firecracker, bouncing around and carousing with anybody and everybody that tumbled in from the streets. He was an annoyance to the barmaids for his boisterous shouting and pounding on tables, but he treated them slightly better than the other males in the pub so they didn't pay him much mind. Far be it from Madeline to disillusion these people about this seemingly happy nitwit.

"Oi, look Rosie, got a girl of me own to show off 'round 'ere now!" he'd cried to the old woman manning the bar when they first came in, and so St. James' role was established yet again: pretend to be his lady and thus deflect attention from him in that manner. The women in the pub had hard faces, pain and sorrow etched permanently into the lines around their eyes and mouths. They glanced at her suspiciously when she went to gather up the two pints Holmes had ordered upon walking through the front door, but once she rolled up her sleeves and displayed the stitch scars, the women didn't bother her with queer looks any longer.

_**And so we'll drink the final glass**__**, **__**each to his joy or sorrow**__**, **__**and hope the numbing drunk will last **__**'til opening tomorrow…**_

"Couldn't you have done this on your own?" she prodded him in hushed tones once she'd brought back the drinks. "I hardly think that it would be implausible for a man to be alone in this establishment.

"Stuart-the suspect-knows I've taken his case. His accomplice, a man named Bishop, had come to me to track him down in exchange for immunity, but he turned and confessed to Stuart what he'd done afterward. His body was dredged from the Thames early last week, if you recall," he began, speaking so low as to not be heard over the crowd. "The body with multiple stab wounds and five gold fillings missing from his teeth."

She nodded gravely, staring down into her pint. "Oh yes, I remember reading about that in the papers. Sickening."

"Absolutely. I do not doubt that before he killed Bishop, Stuart extracted everything his measly accomplice could tell about me. I've taken care of the physical attributes, but he also knows I work alone, and so he looks for that now. As he's started making his rounds again, the man is apprehensive of all the others coming in here. Have you not noticed that all the men are escorting some type of female here?"

Taking in the crowd once more, it was apparent that everyone had a partner sitting on his lap or standing behind him to watch the poker game being played. Underneath the false frivolity, she realized that fear was playing on every man and woman's nerves in the place.

"Nobody can be alone, because he suspects everyone of being Sherlock Holmes," she supplied aloud, "and so they shield themselves behind women. These people fear him."

"Exactly. He's utterly heartless and disgusting."

_**Each knows the questions he will ask **__**and each man knows the answers…**_

Holmes swigged some of his ale, grimacing either from the sourness of the drink, or the bitterness of the truth spoken. The front door of the establishment burst open, another wave of people crushing inside. The interminable rains had started again, judging by the dampness of their sodden clothing. Chairs were disappearing left and right, and from out of nowhere another couple had appeared by their sides. The girl had scraggly blonde hair, and sweetness in her deep blue eyes. Her escort had black hair, nearly black eyes, and a somewhat swarthy complexion, but he was smiling broadly.

"Oi, Tommy, good ta be seein' ya agin!" the young man shouted, gripping Holmes' free hand in his. Winking at Madeline, he went on, "Brought yesself a lady finally, didja?"

"Yessir, Ralph, this is me gal, Lily," Holmes pronounced proudly, his hand sliding around Madeline's waist. Her nerves, once again on edge, nearly got the better of her when she felt the five individual digits shift around her hip. "She don't talk much, but she's the light of me life, she is."

"Great ta meet ya, Lily," Ralph murmured kindly before sliding into what had previously been Madeline's chair. The young woman who was on his arm dropped into his lap, her mouth muttering something in his ear. Flushing, he spluttered, "Oh yeah, this beauty is me Helena."

"H-h-hello," Madeline stuttered, unsure of what to do now that her seat was taken. Holmes shifted in his chair, dropping his feet from off the table to the floor. Staring at her expectantly, he even patted his own lap for effect. Rolling her eyes discreetly, she hesitantly lowered her bottom onto his lap, the proper side of her brain screaming at her for the sordid behavior.

"Only because you're on a case and need cover will I stoop to this level," she whispered angrily, offsetting her words with a charming smile. Sherlock shot one back at her before gripping her legs and spinning her around so she was facing him rather than facing the pub.

"Play the part, my dear," he chided gently. "Be an actress…every woman is born to be one. Use your imagination."

Sighing, she just stared at him boredly; she didn't want to play pretend anymore. He retaliated by poking her in the ribs and tickling her mercilessly. It made her laugh and kick, and brought a real smile to her face. At one point he paused, catching her flailing wrists and chuckling along with her. As she began to calm down, she found her forehead was resting against his, and murmured that he'd won the battle. His expression was completely unreadable, and Madeline found herself losing track of the time, of the people surrounding them. She could only see dark brown irises, and only hear her breath coming in sharply.

The front door banged open again, this time a single man escaping from the rain. The duo jumped apart, and a hush fell over the crowd. After a brief stare-down between the man and the pubgoers, the chatter rose uneasily again. Looking back down at Holmes, Madeline could see the detective taking over the man, and so she adjusted to being the pretty prop on his lap. She watched the strange man, who was soaked to the bone, set himself at the first open playing table and shuffling the cards accordingly. His nose was angled like a crow's beak, his teeth grimy and rotting. His greasy brown hair was tied back, and his clothing was the nondescript togs of one of the many men from the poor districts. The only distinct feature he had was the chain hanging around his neck with five large golden lumps attached to it; the man was, of course, Stuart.

"Bishop's teeth?" she plied Holmes, who nodded slowly. She was shocked at the gruesome use of the fillings, but said no more. A few minutes went by, with tense conversation being shared with Ralph and Helena, before Sherlock patted her knee. Swiftly she rose from his lap, quirking up an eyebrow at him.

"I feel loik playin' some cards. Come along, me darlin'," he said, complete calm in his voice and face. Ralph was bug-eyed at the suggestion, and Helena only looked sadly when he dragged "Lily" to Stuart's table. Tossing a few bank notes on the table, the sleuth gestured in greeting at the murderer-suspect and sat himself down. " 'Ello, mate."

Stuart merely grunted, dealing out the card lazily. His shoulders were coiled beneath his heavy overcoat as if he was expecting to strike someone, and his gaze flitted from one end of the room to the other. Taking up his hand, Holmes lips turned down into a frown.

_**And so we'll drink the final drink **__**that cuts the brain in sections**__**…**__**where answers never signify **__**and there aren't any questions…**_

"Bloody awful storm outside?" he wondered, idly tossing away two cards.

"Getting' ta be," Stuart's gravelly voice crawled out of his mouth. Holmes grunted, running a hand through his hair and wiping the red residue that come off onto his trousers.

"Mischief night," the detective muttered. Upon seeing the suspect's inquisitive countenance, he continued, "Just somefin' me ma used ta say about stormy nights. Perfect time for ta wors' of ta wors' ta happen. Loik evil spirits wanderin' 'round town…or a thief bein' hired by a profess'r to take out a squealer."

Freezing in his chair, Stuart gulped audibly. Holmes leaned forward in his seat, setting the cards aside and glaring at the man.

"Moriarty hired you, first as an informant on the streets, and now he's using you as an assassin. However, whatever faith he had in you was misguided; you thought you were clever enough to cover your tracks the night Bolton dropped dead," he said, dropping his accent. Madeline listened in, as the new name had piqued her interest. "It certainly seemed that way: wait for a rainy night, track him down to his lounge, wait for him to come out drunk and disoriented, and then drag him into the back alley to do the deed. The rain was to have washed away all evidence, and the police wouldn't have cared; after all, having another connection of Moriarty's snipped would be of little consequence. Too bad you underestimated Greenwich; the mud samples from there differ greatly than ones from here, and so dropping East End mud on the victim was a tell-tale clue. I must admit it was Bishop who confirmed my suspicions, but I had long wondered when Moriarty would play you."

The thief-turned-murderer launched backwards out of his chair and made a beeline for the door. Snatching a nearby gin bottle, Holmes aimed and threw it, pegging the man on his shoulder. The shattering glass was nothing new to the patrons, but the now-bloodied Stuart was, and so everyone gaped as he hollered and slammed the door open with his good arm. Grabbing Madeline's arm, Holmes pulled her into a run, following him down the slippery stones of the Bethnal Green streets.

Somehow, she maneuvered ahead of him, legs stretching and pounding at their fullest potential. Hiking up her skirts, she felt empowered by her gait. Rounding a bend, she barely had time to duck as a wooden board swung towards her head. Going into a slide, she avoided Stuart's clumsy swing and managed to kick him in the back of the knee. Holmes leapt upon the man, taking him through the glass window that was positioned right behind them. Shrieks echoed from the upstairs, and the owners of the building started striking matches and lighting lamps. Thumps and crashes indicated hits and misses, but Madeline couldn't see what was going on in the downstairs. A man's voice from upstairs called out the window for a constable, and she felt her stomach drop.

"Oh, bloody hell," she hissed, just as Holmes came flying out the broken window, Stuart planted beneath him. The constable's whistle pierced the air, and indicated that the night was going to be much longer than she'd hoped.

**xXxXxXx**

2:45 AM

"I cannot believe we are being held here for the night!" Madeline screeched, sitting down on the flimsy wooden bench in the holding yard. The constable that had come to the landowner's aid had all three of them arrested: Stuart for his multiple crimes, Holmes from breaking and entering plus vandalism, and Madeline for being an accessory. Despite the detective's brave actions, the officer told him that he'd have to at least spend the rest of the night at Scotland Yard.

"I must say, this did not go entirely according to plan," Holmes concurred, plopping down beside her. She glared at him and slid to the far end of the bench. At that point, the other degenerates wandering in the yard were looking to be better companions. "But the important thing is that another of Moriarty's gang is off the streets, and I am ever closer to ensnaring the fiend."

Madeline was too exhausted and too furious to even ask about Moriarty's wide circle of informants. She crossed her arms and shivered, briefly tempted to commit homicide knowing that Lestrade might be convinced to look the other way as she did so.

"Twenty-seven years, not a bad mark on my reputation. Then, three months after meeting you, I have a record. I cannot believe it," she spat, refusing to look in Holmes' direction. "Bollocks. Damn dirty bollocks!"

"…It was in the name of justice, though."

"That hardly makes the situation any better, Sherlock!"

His head dipped down to his chest, as if he was actually acknowledging the point she was making. He moved towards her again, still looking contrite.

"Admit it, my dear, you enjoyed the thrill of the game."

Her astounded gaze fluttered around the muddy pit they were exiled to. Enjoyed it? She was pinched, prodded, poked, laced in, droned to, stalked, coerced, manhandled, attacked, and arrested! How could she possibly...

"Even if you won't admit it, I know the truth," Holmes smugly confided, stretching his arms above his head. Her bones ached as she sagged and put her head in her hands.

"Let's just hope that Watson comes to bail us out in the morning. Then I'll consider admitting to your asinine theory."

"That's all I ask for, my lady."

* * *

**Author's note:** And so end that crazy night's adventure. One…freakin' long night. Sorry about the bad Cockney, just doing my best. It's been a busy week, what with me restarting at work, drawing up some comics for my deviantArt page/group, and working on this chapter. Anyway, hoped you enjoyed it, PLEASE REVIEW, and I'll be back in a week!


	16. Ghost Town

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "Ghost Town" by The Specials (in bold).

* * *

October 31st, 1891

Thankfully Watson did come the morning after Madeline and Sherlock's grand escapade to bail them out, equally unsurprised and full of reprimands for the detective. For an entire hour he berated his old friend on the improprieties and dangers of involving a woman for reconnaissance work, while Madeline just sat there choking down giggles and departing for the bathroom to scrub herself clean of the accumulated mud. After that incident, Holmes did not dare suggest bringing her out on a case again; it was unclear whether he was afraid of being lectured again or if it was genuinely too dangerous for her to do so. In any case, she found herself to be quite relieved when he dismissed her offers for help.

And also, quite disappointed. As much as she hated to admit it (even if it was only to herself) she did enjoy the adventure he'd given her. It was thrilling to have assisted the world's greatest consulting detective.

Nearly two months had passed without any form of trouble, with only fencing practice and social outings bringing the duo together. However, when Madeline mentioned possibly attending a séance at a well-to-do acquaintance's home on All Hallow's Eve, Holmes put his foot down.

"Absolutely not. Those gatherings are nothing but a sham," he chided her, pouring tea for their afternoon meeting. "You cannot go through with such tomfoolery."

"I am a grown woman, Holmes. You cannot forbid me from doing anything. Besides," she stated, pausing for a moment to sip her beverage, "it's merely for a lark. I hardly expect to make any contact with the dead."

"Oh, a lark, you say? Well, that certainly changes the circumstances considerably," he snarked, rolling his eyes. "Still, if you're willing to throw your money away on actors hired to pretend to communicate with the deceased, far be it from me to tell you not to."

Madeline snickered. "It's all in good fun. That's the point of the holiday, after all…to be frightened. To wander with the souls come back from beyond the grave."

In truth, Halloween was her favorite holiday. When she was younger, her mother would gather her and her brother up and tell the children grisly tales about witches, imps, and other mad things that went bump in the night. The village would have a bonfire, and she'd go bobbing for apples. As she'd matured, Madeline was invited to her school's own version of revelry, a costumed masque. Dressing up in disguise, dancing in the hall with her best chums, and then hearing the same spooky stories again simply made her year. On this holiday, she could be anybody else. She could even walk with the spirits of her family…an almost comforting notion, as more and more members joined that ghostly group with each passing year.

The strange glint that Holmes had glazed in his eye every now and again was growing again. He was hatching a plan, and just from the way he was looking at her, Madeline could tell it wasn't going to be a picnic in the park.

"Whatever, you're planning, no."

"I am planning nothing." His audibly sipped his tea, but the look of deviousness did not leave his face. Setting the fine china cup down in its saucer, she started rubbing her forehead.

"If you are not 'planning', then what are you 'thinking'?" she had to ask, curiosity getting the better of her once more. Immediately, the sleuth's eyes diverted to the ottoman sitting by the fireplace, buried beneath mountains of paper and clothes.

"I rather think that, if you truly are seeking the macabre, you should go to places that exhibit actual signs of it," he murmured innocently…too innocently.

"Such as?"

"Now that would be telling," he mumbled, upending his cup when finished and rising from his chair. Scurrying across the room, he gathered up a pen and some paper, scrawling a short note on it. "Go to this address no later than nine o'clock this evening. I shall meet you there."

Taking the proffered page, Madeline stuttered, "But…the séance…I can hardly tell the hostess I will not attend. She is expecting me."

The detective shrugged, pulling out a dossier from one of the cabinets near the writing table.

"Do as you wish. I daresay that you would find a more pertinent All Hallow's Eve experience at this address, but if you must be somewhere, then you must go."

She nodded, but still eyed him warily as he thumbed through the files, his back turned to her suddenly. It appeared as though he wasn't taking note of her huffs of indignation, or that he was so wrapped up in his impromptu work that he couldn't hear her kicking the table leg in frustration.

"If you keep that up, you'll leave a dent in the wood."

In a flurry of motion, Madeline gathered up her skirts and her jacket, darting past the now-smirking detective.

"I won't be on time, Holmes, but whatever is at this address better be worth it."

**xXxXxXx**

Standing on the darkened streets of London, trembling in her coat, she had to wonder what was so special about this particularly shuttered and bolted house at 31 Hever Street. The wind howled, twisting the shutters on the house and chilling Madeline down to the bone. It was true, she did like this holiday for its sole purpose of being bewitching, but when one was entirely alone on a blackened road facing a spooky old home, one didn't find the situation so titillating. Especially not at half past ten.

_**This town, is coming like a ghost town…all the clubs have been closed down…**_

Nor was it exciting when a certain male friend decided to leap out from the nearby alley, weaving his way silently to one's side.

"Hello, dear lady," he whispered in her ear, causing her to screech and jump a foot in the air. Once she'd realized who it was she settled down, and then swiftly smacked Sherlock hard on the chest.

"Don't do that!"

"So many things you dislike my doing, Madeline…What can I do with you?" he muttered, clicking his tongue in a joking reproach. "Enjoy your séance?"

Her eyelids closed briefly, replaying the night's events in her head. Lady Sumnor had brought in Madame Chekov to lead the ceremony. Hands joined, the madame hummed, and names were shouted out. Messages from beyond the grave were sent. When she inquired as to if she could speak with her father, Madeline was told that he missed her dearly. With Holmes' suspicious voice whispering in the back of her mind, she asked if remembered his prized horse Bill, and Chekov exclaimed that he could, and that he was glad she was taking good care of the old nag.

"It was an interesting experience. Not terrifying at all," she confessed, shrugging her shoulders. It was no surprise that Holmes merely blinked and shook his head.

"And here I thought that was the reason you so treasured this day: to be scared out of your wits."

She snorted. "Not out of my wits, but a little dose of the unexplained is…not so bad."

In response, the sleuth's eyes narrowed in the lamplight. "The unexplained and I are not exactly on the best of terms."

"Because there are some things that lie beyond your realm of intelligence? It's not a shortcoming to not know everything."

"I understand that," he grumbled almost irritably. "But to presented with challenges with no solutions in sight…mmph."

The last word was more of a grunt of displeasure, like no word could convey his complete hatred of an unsolvable puzzle. Clearing his throat, he retrieved his fallen lantern and led the way up to the battered doorway of the house. Twisting the knob several times, he eventually had to force it open with forceful pushes of his shoulder.

"I gather you wonder as to why I've instructed you to come to this obviously decrepit piece of land," Holmes soldiered on, halfway over the threshold. "It is purported that the house has long since been abandoned as no one could keep it. Hearing creaks and moans, shuffling footsteps in the night and all that."

"And here I thought you were a doubter," she responded sarcastically. "Why indulge in something you refuse to believe in? Just for the sake of sport?"

"Perhaps…and to maybe disprove the theory of spectral beings entirely."

Her lips spread in a massive grin. "You don't leave deduction out of anything, do you?"

Holmes' own smirk went wide as well before he turned towards the interior of the building. Following his guiding light into the darkness, Madeline sidestepped two broken chairs and a fallen ladder. The two stood in the foyer, breathing in the layers of untouched dust blanketing everything. A swaying staircase stretched upward into the blackness, and the hall continued on towards another set of doors.

"A client of mine lived next door to this house for years. He told me of lamps flickering at odd hours of the night, and a woman's scream at precisely 2:37 every morning."

Despite knowing full well that Holmes could be spewing lies, she found herself getting chills as he ventured forth. His client dug deeper into the mysterious house next door, trying to pinpoint exactly why nobody lived in it for longer than three weeks. As he researched, the man found that back in 1811 the first owners of the newly-built home had moved in. The husband was a tanner, and his wife was a fifteen-year-old girl brought down from Edinburgh specifically for their marriage. Betsy, she was called, and the poor girl lived unhappily in the city. As the marriage was arranged ("Hardly a surprise there, Holmes."), Betsy clearly had no love for her husband, for being a homemaker. He was far older than she, and merely wanted the offspring that could be gotten from a fertile young girl. He would work all day, come home and eat the dinner she'd been preparing for hours, and then go to the common house and drink until it was nearly dawn out. It was rumored that within the first year of the union she was straying, her attention captured by another tanner her husband worked with.

One night, the husband decided to go home early after a night of carousing. He caught Betsy in a romantic tryst with her lover in the master bedroom. The young man scurried out the window, never to be seen in London again. Unfortunately for Betsy, her husband carried a loaded pistol to protect himself as he crossed to and from work every day. In a fit of rage, he shot the poor girl, her yelps of terror echoing down the sleepy streets. The tanner ran in fear of his life as her blood drained down onto the floorboards.

_**This town, is coming like a ghost town…Why must the youth fight against themselves? Can't go on no more…The people getting angry…**_

"And he was never found. Since that day, every man who sets foot in this house is driven out within a few days' time. Painters have stopped by, as you saw in the foyer, but had to leave in a hurry when they heard footsteps in the master bedroom, which is kept under lock and key. Cold blasts of air freeze you down to your very bones…and Betsy's death throes are heard in the night, begging for someone to notice her plight and bring her murderous husband to justice," Sherlock concluded, having guided her around the ground floor and halfway up the stairs.

As she had no light of her own, she'd stuck close to his side as he spun the tragic tale, taking his arm so he wouldn't lose her in the dark. No matter how hard she tried to pretend like the story didn't bother her, Madeline felt her grip tighten on him as the house shifted. The stirring shadows kicked up ghastly figures and made her think something was following them. The cold winds of the night seeped through the cracks, icing over her core. With numbed steps she went on, dragged down the upstairs hall to a door positioned at the very end. It was the master bedroom, and the lock was bolted.

"Very well, Sherlock, you've had your fun. The tale of terror had been told, so we can go," she murmured, wanting nothing more than to put the eerie building in her past. Scary stories were much easier to hear when one was in one's own home, safe and far away from the tale's setting. The thrill of finding out what lay behind the wooden panels was overriding her desire to go, though.

"It's no tale," Holmes replied, putting the light down on the floorboards and suddenly kicking in the door. Screaming in shock, Madeline nearly bolted. However, the detective's constrictive arms curled around her waist and pulled her right against his body. Her heart hammered in her chest, her own arms curling around him in search of protection. Slowly her breath became regular, and with a gentle tug, Holmes brought her into the room of death.

_**This town, is coming like a ghost town…**_

Moonlight poured in from the single window, illuminating a bed frame coated in grime. Tumbling over each other, they began to investigate the room. Heel imprints of lady's boots were fresh in the dust...and a massive stain spread out at the very head of the bed. "It appears as if the lady has been making her rounds. Perhaps if we stay until the early morning hours, we could listen to her ethereal scream."

"We could…if the story was true," Madeline groused, looking down and out the window. Hooking her thumb at it, Holmes came over and began cursing under his breath. She'd spotted the abandoned shoes hiding on the portion of roof below the window. "I appreciate the try, Holmes. You did have me going for awhile there. What did you use for the blood stain?"

He turned away, stumbling over a chair leg. "Red ink. It seeped into the wood quickly and dried brown, as blood would've after being unattended for years."

Wrinkling her nose, the living lady cast her gaze around the room. "Is this just another home in London that simply fell into disrepair, with no one bothering to claim it and try again?"

"Yes. And I believe my point is proven; ghosts are a figment of the imagination. Spin the right wool, and you can assemble the belief that souls can be trapped after death," Holmes said, leaning against the far wall. "They're only good for filling children's brains with fright and perpetuating the holiday."

"So say you."

_**This town, is coming like a ghost town…**_

Suddenly, the lamp nestled on the floor began sputtering, extinguished by a mysterious breeze. Now plunged fully in the dark, Madeline felt her pulse race in dread. Feelings of heartache and sadness washed over her, and it was no longer a night of enjoyment.

_CreeeEEEAAak_…

"Please tell me that the creaking noise is you crossing the floor, Holmes," she gasped. An uncomfortable silence passed, the moaning of the wood going on.

"…I thought you were crossing over to me."

_SLAM!_ The bedroom door violently crashed against its frame, and thus shattered the remaining splinters of her composure. Yelling to wake the dead, Madeline rushed across the room, smacking against something solid. A hand clamped over her mouth, and a loud hissing bounced into her ear.

"Calm down!" Holmes hushed her, gathering her close once more. "Swallow down the fear. I promise that there is nobody in here that will hurt you. Your imagination is getting the better of you."

If she had been able to concentrate on his voice, she would've heard the smallest twinge of alarm hidden beneath layers of bravado. Rather, she heard only the words, and could only feel the strength of Holmes' grip as he kept her close. The hand was removed from her lips, coming to rest on her shoulder.

"Right…right," Madeline crooned, still quaking in her boots, "it's all my imagination."

_BANG!_ The door flew open again, and this time she did not scream. Instead, she hauled her companion behind her out of the room, down the stairs, and leaping over the threshold. As they tore away, Madeline swore a young woman cackled upon their departure.

'_Happy Halloween…'_

**xXxXxXx**

Six hours and three pots of tea later, Madeline found herself huddled beneath one of Holmes' old blankets, sitting cross-legged on the floor before a roaring fire. He was seated next to her, cradling a mug and staring into the flames. In all that time, they hardly said two words to one another, shaken by the night's events.

Blinking sleepily, Madeline set down her teacup and curled onto her side.

"Holmes?"

The detective glanced over momentarily, placing his mug next to hers.

"Yes?" he said, his voice gravelly with fatigue.

"Let's never speak of this night again."

The sound of bones popping reached her ears; Sherlock had stretched his arms above his head to work out the kinks.

"I cannot help but agree to those terms."

* * *

**Author's note:** Did I scare you? I don't expect I did…I've recently discovered my love for a show called "Ghost Adventures" (Zak, Nick, and Aaron rock!), and so I guess that love is leaking into the story. Anyway, hope you enjoyed that little taste of Halloween in June, please review, and I'll see you all next week!


	17. Stronger Than

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "Stronger Than" by Gabe Bondoc (in bold).

* * *

November 13th, 1891

The battle against Moriarty waged on. Hundreds of leads were followed, most leading to members of his army or merely touching upon his plan with the wireless device, but that was all. Holmes was becoming increasingly maddened by his nearly fruitless pursuit, and increasingly impatient with the rest of the world. The feelings of resentment, the burning fury, bled out into his home life. Never had Mrs. Hudson been more terrified to tread the boards of her own home, and his friends could do little to assuage him.

Watson, and to a lesser degree Madeline, found him to be as utterly maddening as the great foe breathing down all their necks. No matter what they tried, somehow everything would come back to Moriarty. No distraction held him for long, not even the promise of swordplay helped. He was aflame, alight, could not concentrate on anything but the case.

However, he'd resolved to set the issue aside for one day, and allow his mind to be occupied with demonstrating the skills of his student to an audience of her peers, namely the good doctor and Mary, as well as Mrs. Tyler and Mrs. Bray. Persuading Holmes to participate had taken literal hours of argument, but in the end, Madeline felt it was worth it.

"_Perhaps with this demonstration, your mind will be cleared and you will find the loose end to pull," she reasoned finally, practically on her knees and begging before him. She was so worried about his mind, his health, she was willing to swallow her pride and prostrate herself so her friend could recover._

_Running a hand through his messy black hair, he sighed, "Perhaps. And it will do you some good, as the doctor is a military man and could help correct you in ways I cannot."_

"_Maybe," she replied, her lips pulling back into a relieved smile. "I'm not so certain I will be seeing combat anytime soon though, Sherlock."_

_Holmes laughed, light dancing in his eyes for a moment. "I suppose you have a point there."_

Discussion upon discussion of what could and should happen with the great Lord of Crime was sickening after awhile. And deep down, another discussion was being ignored, avoided…

There was a darker feeling lying beneath it all within Madeline, one that she dared not name. In fact, it was something she had no name for. It arose and blanketed her at the slightest glance from the detective, from the briefest touch of his hand on her bare wrist as he readjusted her sword's position. It was a fire, it was ice; burning and freezing her soul as he'd clung close to her that Halloween night, or during their brief contact during Great Escapade in August.

_**Is it my fault I can't speak, or that my body becomes weak, or that I can hardly move at the very thought of you?**_

She could not name it, for she had no idea what it was. His dark eyes bore into her, asking the questions he dare not voice, and her green ones struggled to hold back the answers she could never form. So they talked around it, played pretend and never acknowledged her frozen fire. The trouble with that was this fire was not one that was easily contained, and at any moment it would scorch them both.

_**Nothing ever really got to me, I could always turn the other cheek…Could it be those days are gone?**_

Buried deep in the back of her mind, she wondered if maybe he wasn't already burned by it.

'_After all, we share the same blood. Would it be so mad to think he could feel it heating as I do, at the most inopportune moments?'_ Madeline thought, arranging her fencing outfit one last time before pulling on her specially-made boots. _'It would explain the impetuous nature I've adopted in the last few months…or it could be from mere association with him.'_

There was a knock at the door then, and Mary's strong voice bled through the panels.

"Are you ready, Madeline? Mr. Holmes does seem to be quite restless waiting for you."

"Aye, and he's quite restless whenever he has to wait for anyone but himself, as you well know," she joked, attaching her hilt to her belt and sliding the rapier in it. Mary opened the door then, her jovial smirk brightening her face. Madeline noted how much her gait had slowed as the baby grew bigger. Only a month from now, a new little Watson would be pattering around Cavendish Place, and Mary would be relieved of her heavy burden. "How're you feeling today, Mrs. Watson?"

Tucking a loose strand of her light hair behind her ear, Mary shrugged. "No worse than usual. Back cramps and the like are still wracking me, but it's endurable."

"I'm certain he'll be a strong one," St. James replied, taking Mary's hand and squeezing it. A small pang of jealousy beat in her heart; in all her years with Simon, she'd not once conceived a child. She did want a little boy or girl of her own, but without a suitor, it would be impossible for her to do so.

'_And when you'll allow no man save a dark-eyed, lithe sleuth to enter your presence, you squash all hopes for it,'_ her brain whispered, causing her to shake her head in denial and smiling widely. _'Stop it, stop it, stop it!'_

"Thank you for the encouragement," Mary murmured, sweeping her arm towards the door. "And now, I turn some good words onto you: I'm certain you'll do exceptionally well today."

Madeline blushed and inclined her head in thanks before exiting the room swiftly. Immediately she and the doctor's wife climbed into the hansom cab waiting to take them to the warehouse. As she did so, the lady thought she saw a flash of brown hair and bright eyes disappear into the alley across the way, like someone had been watching for her. The cab lurched into the busy streets, and Madeline kept her guard up. The hair on her neck stood up on end; something was going to happen today, and she wasn't so sure it would be good.

**xXxXxXx**

Bundled against the winter cold, the spectators watched as the duo of Holmes and St. James fluidly engaged each other in battle. All the ladies gasped when Madeline lost her footing at one point, dropping to her knee and barely avoiding a swipe by rolling away. Watson guffawed when Sherlock got a hard kick on back region that sent him toppling over. Thrust, disengage, parry…each move was countered smoothly by the opponents. For a full fifteen minutes they went on, at first strictly playing with blades, and then moving on to a hybrid of boxing and wrestling. Mrs. Tyler was all aflutter at the end of it all, her pupils dilating significantly when Holmes managed to flick his collar open wide enough to semi-bare his chest.

If anyone had been paying attention to her own eyes instead of her body, they would've seen the same look reflecting in Madeline's. She started, backing away suddenly from the thought physically. Egged on by a possible surrender, Holmes invaded her space and grabbed her arms. Dragged backwards into their invisible ring, she felt that betraying organ pounding in her chest, fearing his hold on her.

And yet…_and yet she hoped he'd never let go._

_**I swear I'm stronger than these emotions, but they're taking over me…**_

'_Oh no,'_ she inwardly groaned, recognizing in that moment the feelings by their true name. Then she saw the hand swinging towards her head, forcing her to jerk back. _'Oh, no!'_

In his blind dancing, he did not see her personal revelation, and for that she was most grateful. At the end of their somewhat choreographed maneuvers, both were flushed, sweating, and bowing at the waist to their approving audience. It was a fine show, and for the moment, Holmes had forgotten about his enemy, his frustration, thanks to his exhausted female companion standing to his left. With her, he was able to act purely on instinct, the thought in some way there and yet not. And instinctually, his gaze flicked over to her, to her male clothing-clad body, and her sandy hair straggling down from her cap. The green of her glimpse made his stomach turn strangely, in a way familiar and yet unknown. The flush of his face grew darker, but he could not look away. Not a detail was missed, and so he noticed how her face was instantly drained of blood. Her jaw dropped, and following her eyes, he saw exactly why she was shocked.

"Bravo, Sherlock and madam!" cried a woman leaning over the railing on an upper platform. The brunette locks that were pinned back on her head slipped away, and her bright eyes missed nothing. Miss Irene Adler was indeed impressed with the performance…somewhat. "It's good to see you're training another defenseless woman to fend for herself on the rough London streets!"

Her insincere flattery worked on nobody, least of all the detective. He'd not seen her for a month and a half, when she'd come to him with her last bit of information on the professor she served. Moriarty was finally sick of using as Irene as a go-between, and just plain expelled her from his organization. Madeline heard the briefest version of this story, but what she gathered from the physical evidence (meaning the torn collar on his shirt and the lip rouge marks along his jaw), it seemed that Adler had tried to seduce him once more. But all traces of her were swept out of the house by the time Madeline had arrived just hours later, and so she assumed he'd also disposed of Irene as well.

Apparently Irene did not want to stay "disposed".

"What brings you by, Miss Adler?" Watson coughed, stepping forward. Julianne and Mrs. Bray looked from him to Madeline and up at Irene, their eyebrows quirking up in confusion. Mary leaned over and whispered explanations to them as Irene began to descend to their level.

"Oh, I simply was in the neighborhood, noticed the spectacle," she said, pulling her gloves off finger by finger. "A fine student you have there, Holmes. Aren't you that one woman from the accident, that one who almost got killed by her maid?"

"It was my brother-in-law's maid, actually," Madeline responded, shifting her weight uncomfortably. Adler had reached the bottom of the stairs and leaned against the far wall, her smirk growing wider.

"Oh, forgive me, Mrs. St. John."

"St. James." Her irritation level, already heightened, was reaching its pique. Considering how this con artist had toyed with her friend's life for so long, it was a wonder that she could handle speaking to Adler at all. Turning her back on the opposing lady, she grabbed up the abandoned rapiers and handed her male compatriot's back to him.

"Again, forgive me." Irene's attention turned back on Holmes. He'd taken a step back, his hands clasped behind his back and his gaze piercing her. "But I must say, the fight was a bit unfair."

"How so?" Sherlock queried, cocking his head to the left.

The sultry thief shrugged, like she wasn't actually trying to antagonize anybody. "Well, as a teacher, you have a duty to assist your student. In other words, you're not fighting to the fullest extent to your ability. But what would happen if, say, an enemy appears and tries to attack? She hasn't been prepared for that, as you will stop before going too far."

"I assure you, she has been trained well enough to engage a total stranger."

'_She__ is standing right here…'_ Madeline groused to herself, tightening her hold on her rapier's hilt.

"Why not test the theory?"

Madeline did not hide her eye-rolling. "You have no weapon on you, madam. The engagement would be unevenly matched."

At that moment, Irene pulled out the daggers concealed in her hair. Disguised as decorative hair pins, they gleamed in the low light and seemed vicious.

"What say you now to a friendly fight?"

Holmes tried to intercede. "Woman, I highly suggest-"

"No, Sherlock," Madeline grunted, her back stiffening as renewed energy surged through her frame. "I will accept your challenge, Miss Adler."

The two women were glaring fully at each other. There would be no "friendly fight"; it was going to be an all-out war. No matter that Madeline was dripping with sweat, or that Irene did not know her enemy, they had to do it. The gauntlet was thrown and picked up. The only question remaining was why Irene was doing this at all.

"En garde," the brunette roared, charging ahead with her shining knives. The fairer woman sidestepped and shoved her along, jumping out of the way.

"Thanks for the warning."

_**I wasn't ready for these emotions that are taking over me…**_

They weaved around each other, performing a waltz wherein they crashed, slammed and passed blades. Each step measured against the other equally, and neither would surrender the battle. Adler drove one dagger at Madeline's leg, and nearly succeeded in catching her. Luckily she jerked her leg out, and so instead of metal meeting flesh, the blade just bit into her clothing. Soon enough her rapier flew away, followed by Adler's weapons. Now both were fully bare, mouths panting and harsh words being bandied only by their actions.

And Irene, as she was wont to do, took to her heels and sped out the door. She didn't count on a lady, filled with Holmes' own pursuing blood, would go after her. The great chase continued for some time, with Adler knocking barrels and crates over as she passed and Madeline leaping and tripping as she trailed after her. The docks lay just in front of the con's path and from there she could only double back. Screeching to a halt, she barely had time to turn around before Madeline plowed straight into her. They wrestled for a time, evenly matched there as well. As far as street fighting went, Irene could hold her own, but only for a short amount of time. Her strength lied in being seductive and charming people into giving her what she wanted.

But Madeline was not like that. She took the fight to the furthest level and beyond. For she had learned that in her life it had to be all or nothing.

"Stop!" Irene screamed, scratching her opponent's face with her manicured nails. "Get off me, you witch!"

"Argh! Not until you explain why you've challenged me, why you've come back, why…" Madeline groaned, wrenching the other woman's hand away from her cheek. The wound was burning, a sure sign that it was deep enough to scar. At that moment, she looked into Irene's jealous orbs, and could see the reason. The fight bled out of her bones, and then the thief overpowered her, but only the pounding in her brain mattered.

It was Holmes. Irene was fighting for Sherlock Holmes, though it was a losing battle. She could not accept the defeat…she could accept the fact that he was well and truly done chasing her. And the only comprehensible reason behind his rejection was…his single true female friend. Irene had followed them, watched them, and had been doing so probably for months. She was seeing her replacement, the light to her dark, the other side of the coin settled upright on Holmes' table.

However one-sided and misguided the reasoning was, it was what Adler was clinging to. Madeline burned and froze again, unable to make apologies and unable to spit it back into Irene's face. All she could do was crawl away from the thudding punches.

"He can never…" Adler started, grabbing her ankles and pulling her back into the tussle, "…he will never…"

"I don't want to hear it, I cannot hear it," Madeline rejected her words feebly. She punched Irene squarely in the jaw, knocking her back. Finally freed, she stumbled away and swiped the blood off her scratches. _'This cannot be happening, I will not let it happen…'_

"He'll never love."

The words were out and making the air bitter. Puffs of breath flowed from the women, one's powered by complete exhaustion and the other's driven by overwhelming emotion. It was unsure if their feelings were so much different. Madeline stared down her adversary, eyes brimming with tears and ears catching the sounds of beating footsteps. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Mary being led on by her husband, Julianne with her great strides overcoming those of Nanny Bray. And at the head of the pack ran the one whom the battle was fought, one of the most intelligent and yet most blind men in Britain.

_**You're the silence in a roaring crowd… you're the answer that I never woulda guessed…**_

The man who stopped short in his path once he found two familiar women, his expression twisting between askance and disbelief. The scrutinizing gaze was ripping her soul bare, and so Madeline did the first thing she could think of.

_**I swear I'm stronger than these emotions, **__**but they're taking over me…**_

She ran away, hurdling past the crowd, through the streets, across bridges and cart-paths until she arrived at her home. And then, she began to weep; from overtiredness, from shock, from fear, from fury…and from a love she never understood until then.

* * *

**Author's note:** Oooh, drama! After all the fluffy stuff, why not get a dash of it? Well, this is an interesting development, is it not? I hope it's good for you guys. Thanks for reading, review please my dears, and I'll be seeing you all within a week!


	18. In My Dreams

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "In My Dreams" from _The Singing Detective_, as performed by Robert Downey, Jr. (in bold).

* * *

December 5th, 1891

Holmes had run after her, even going so far as to bang on her front door and shout for her to come out, but Madeline would not bow to his demands. Somehow she was able to scrawl a note, begging him to depart with promises that she was just tired and wanted to rest, and slid it underneath the door. He hollered at the door that he knew she was lying, but he'd respect her wishes and go. Away he went, leaving her in peace to sob her eyes out.

Things remained tense even after Madeline's breakdown and Irene's departure. No matter how Julianne gently prodded, or Holmes nosed around the topic, Madeline would not speak of what passed between her and the American. The pain was too difficult to process, let alone explain. And she could not tell the subject of the battle the truth. It was the first time she'd ever lied to Sherlock, but her self-preservation overruled her tongue.

Irene's word echoed in her brain. "He'll never love…"

She did not know if the woman meant Holmes would never love her or just was incapable of loving period. In any case, it forced her to face the truth. Somehow, in the midst of all the blood, sweat, and tears, Madeline had fallen hard for Sherlock Holmes. Given how little she had the opportunity to experience any sort of love outside of familial, it was shock to realize how warm and comforting the feeling was. She'd never felt so…alive, not even after the blood transfusion, which was also thanks to Mr. Holmes. The sky was brighter, the streets livelier, colors were more vivid. Her arranged marriage had nothing to do with love; at best, she and Simon were friends, joined by ceremony and cleaving to one another because they had no choice. But now, her heart beat erratically at the sight of Sherlock, at the smell of him too. There was nothing about him that did not fire up her being.

And every night she dreamt of him…telling her things she knew she'd never hear, holding her close and keeping her by his side.

_**In my dreams you told me that you really, really care…in my dreams you told me it's a love that can't compare…so hold me, hold me, hold me, and never ever let me go…**_

However, the kicker of it all was that Holmes had no idea of her personal revelation. And the blindness ate at her soul; he could pick out exactly where she'd been, what she'd done, and who with a single glance, but he was unable to read the emotion she was hiding unsuccessfully in her eyes.

If he couldn't love, or more accurately couldn't recognize what love was when he saw it, then why the hell should she still be so spellbound by him? The agonizing reality battered her heart around so much that it made her constantly edgy around him, and the ease she and Holmes had was disappearing as the sands of time slipped through their fingers.

As such, a crack broke the bond they'd forged months ago, and as the weeks wore on, it deepened. The secret she kept annoyed Holmes, and his irritating need to know everything frayed her nerves. Shouting matches became more and more commonplace with the pair, upsetting everyone surrounding them. The Watsons had enough to deal with, what with having a baby on the way, on top of the sniping man and woman. Of course, they'd mumbled belated apologies and all would be well again until the next quarrel.

What was going on between these once great friends?

Mary ventured her own theory as to why to her husband one night as they climbed into bed.

"They argue now as if they were two adolescents in love with each other and who have no idea how to express their feelings."

John snorted, pulling the covers over the both of them. "It would make sense…but only if-"

He cut himself off, turning to his wife and raising an eyebrow.

"Do you think that's true?"

Mary shrugged. "I certainly think so. At least Madeline loves him; you can tell by the way she looks at him."

Watson was taken aback, and squawked, "How could you know this?"

"Women know, dear," she'd answered smugly, rolling on her side to go to sleep. And after that night, Watson carefully observed his friends' interactions. The fleeting glances, the accidental grazing of hands, nothing went unnoticed. He chided himself for not seeing it sooner, and for not warning poor Madeline off earlier. Not to be unfair to the man who was his best friend, but Holmes had a reputation for being overly cold towards the opposite sex. Extending his hand in friendship was a big step for him, but aside from that, he generally used women as a means to an end. After all, there was that one case where he got himself engaged to a girl just to gain access to her villainous master's home…

Finally, the trio shared a civil afternoon tea after two weeks of ongoing conflict. Madeline seemed to have regained her faculties, for the most part, constricting her feelings tightly under some sort of emotional corset. Still, the unspoken-of void that had expanded was ever present, no matter the playful banter or the polite declinations that anything was wrong. After she'd left for the evening, the doctor and the detective shared a long sigh.

"Whatever could be agitating her?" Sherlock wondered to his friend, shuffling away from the table and curling up on his tiger-skin rug. "The woman vexes me so. For a fortnight she's been remote, impulsive, and dare I say curmudgeonly. And yet she says nothing as to the cause! Surely the solution to such a problem would not be difficult to uncover."

Watson's eyes slid guiltily towards the doorway. "Perhaps she does not wish to be overanalyzed. You tend to do that a lot with people, whether they ask for your assistance or not."

Rising from his own chair, John heard himself mumbling on.

"Besides, she doesn't want you to know…"

_**In my dreams you told me it's a love that can't compare…In my dreams you told me it's a love you want to share…**_

"Does not want me to know what?"

Cursing himself for thinking out loud, Watson bit his lip and denied saying anything at all. After launching "you did say something"'s and "no I didn't"'s for a good ten minutes, the doctor finally got fed up with it all.

"You really cannot understand what's in her head? I don't believe that! Pull the blinders off your vision and really look at Madeline, Sherlock. You can see what's wrong in her bloody eyes, man!"

Holmes' own eyes flicked around the room, settling on the end table closest to the wall safe. Stomping out the door, John barely made it to the top step before two hands caught his elbow.

"…Irene put something into her head, sabotaging our companionship intentionally, possibly telling her to stay away from me," the sleuth announced. "But to what end?"

"Please, you know the answer perfectly well as to why Irene doesn't want another woman on her territory," Watson pressed his friend, watching with amusement as realization dawned on his face.

"Jealousy."

"Aye."

Silence passed, with Holmes' jaw slightly ajar and Watson torn between laughing and cringing at his friend's expression. Dumbfounded though he was, he found his voice again eventually.

"Of me or of her?"

"If anything, I'd assume of both of you."

Running his hands through his hair, Sherlock turned and stumbled back into his room, collapsing into his favorite chair.

"So she turned Madeline off of me, and she was furious to be told what to do, so she took it out on me."

He was so close, it was almost unreal that he still hadn't figured it out. "Uh…"

Snapping his head around, Holmes narrowed his eyes. "Your exclamation belies your further intelligence on the matter. Speak, man."

"Well, I have neither conformation nor denial of this, so don't hold me to it, but…Mary seems to think that perhaps Madeline may have…understood that there was a reason for Adler to be territorial."

"It is like pulling teeth with you, old boy," Sherlock groused. "Out with it!"

"Christ, she's in love with you, Holmes! It's plain as day, it could not be more obvious! How can you have not actually noticed?" Watson cried, throwing his hands up in defeat.

"Well…obvious facts and all that, chum…" he countered weakly, almost seeming to shrink in on himself. Watson peered at him carefully.

"Did you purposefully overlook her feelings? If so, why? Because you don't return them?"

Another bout of quietness descended on the two men, and that lack of noise, coupled with the detective suddenly blank face, spoke volumes.

"…Or because you reciprocate them, and it horrifies you that you can feel for a woman who isn't a criminal?"

"Enough." The command was gently spoken, but crashed hard into Watson's eardrums. He'd hit the nail on the head, and it nearly knocked the wind out of him. When had this happened? And for how long had he been hiding everything beneath the hardness of his logic and incapacity to tolerate anything other than deduction and reasoning in his body?

Then again, he reviewed the facts. The cocaine needle had remained virtually untouched for the past several months, he remained active, and his energy literally knew no bounds. There was an openness to his frank gazes now, rather than being entirely closed off. Certainly he was still the great Sherlock Holmes, but now he was more Holmes than he'd ever been.

_**It seems that dreams are sometimes make believe…but now I know that they are real…**_

"Holmes…"

"Leave me. Now."

At that moment, one of the Baker Street Irregulars pounded up the stairs, a note clutched in his dirty hand and an exhilarated gleam in his eye. Taking both the words and the boy's arrival as his queue to leave, Watson risked one backwards glance at his friend before quitting the place. As Holmes tersely dealt with the boy and his message, the doctor could see the rapid fall of depression upon Sherlock's countenance. An unbidden thought crossed his mind as he exited the house and hailed a cab: an old proverb about how bad luck comes in pairs.

There was no doubt in Watson's mind that Holmes thought himself in a doubly unlucky situation, for whatever the Irregular gave him, it had to make his life that much worse.

**xXxXxXx**

Holmes stood at the foot of Madeline's stoop later that night, just staring up at her door. He'd been prowling the streets for hours just thinking, and he found himself on her street. Coincidence? For once, he would've liked to think so.

The wind was bitingly cold, but it didn't bother him. He could only think of the revealed truths continuously circling his brain. Moriarty had finally slipped up and drawn the noose around his own neck…and Sherlock was overly fond of the woman just beyond the wooden portal he was glaring at.

'_Hmm. Overly fond? Is that the most you can allow yourself to think?'_

Yes. And it nearly killed him inside to even think that. This wasn't supposed to happen; he was Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective extraordinaire, loyal man of the law, beholden by no woman!

What a load of bollocks. This woman had him twisted around her elegant finger since the first time they'd officially met, and the thought almost sickened him. The dreams he'd been having every other night for the past three months also contradicted him. She came sauntering in, touching him, kissing him, swearing to never let him go…and he woke mutually satisfied and disappointed. However, he swore to himself long ago that women were a trifle not worth indulging in. And in all these years, he'd held to his word, excusing his dalliances with Irene.

_**For in my dreams you said you love me, and in reality you love me, love me, too…**_

Then he pictured Madeline's face, with its freckles, full lips and glowing green eyes. Her honey-brown strands falling across her cheek bone so delicately. Her smile…

Perhaps some promises, like ridiculous rules, were made to be broken. Or, at the very least, he had to indulge himself this one time. After all, he and Watson would be leaving in the morning to follow Moriarty to his hideout on the Continent…and he was unsure that he would truly survive the encounter. Death, or the expectation of it, really reshuffled his priorities. And Adler, for all her bells and whistles, was no longer the only woman he wanted contact with. Holmes had to do this, just once, to know what it was like.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Madeline was there, the door thrown open and the wind tossing her tresses.

"Sherlock, whatever are you doing out here in this blistering cold?" she asked, treading lightly down the steps. That face…so different from Irene's, so beautiful in its own way…he couldn't answer, but simply cast his gaze around the contours of her nose, cheeks, eyes…lips…

"Sherlock…"

With three quick strides he was right in front of her, inhaling her sweet scent of lavender and womanliness.

"Madeline," he began to say, his blood rushing faster in his veins, "I came to say good-bye."

Her nose wrinkled in confusion. "But you've just arrived."

Blinking, he shook his head in mild exasperation. "Obviously. Tomorrow I leave London to track down Moriarty. I have him; he's finally caught."

Her smile was absolutely genuine and stunning. "Brilliant! When do you think you will be back?"

He paused, watching her face fall as the time wore on. "…I don't know."

That seemed diplomatic enough, he reasoned with himself. It was true that he didn't know when the journey would end, and it was better to leave it like that.

"I came here to give you a proper farewell," he reiterated, diverting his gaze down to his thick boots. Faltering in his resolve, Sherlock nearly lost his nerve when she opened her mouth to bid him good-bye.

Almost, that is.

Within those few uncertain moments, he drew in a sharp breath and found his arms winding around her waist. Once she was gathered against his body (and oh, he did like having her that close!), the drive to pursue his true mission overrode all instances of doubt. No more hesitation, no more denial. It was time to indulge…

And so, Holmes' lip claimed Madeline's for his own. It was gentle at first, calm and cool, but the fire catching in their blood drew them into a frenzy. The kiss deepened, causing them to draw closer to one another. It was hard to tell where she ended and he began, their lips were so interconnected. Soon enough, they separated in the need to get more air. Coughing awkwardly, the detective executed a little bow and tipped his hat.

"I promised you a proper good-bye, my dear."

Still flushed, she found herself giggling, "One would hardly deem that proper."

He winked. "Fair enough."

_**Now my dreams have come true, I'm as happy as can be…for I know, in my heart, you won't take this love from me…so hold me, hold me, hold me, and never ever let me go…**_

Pulling her back into his embrace, he held her for a few moments, pelting rain and snow mixing around them. He had to savor the moment, remember every detail, hold on for as long as he could. But he could feel his body itching with the need to flee. Not from her, not entirely…he needed to set the world right. The only way to do that was to stop the Napoleon of Crime. His indulgence, though brief and not nearly enough to satisfy either of them, was finished. And with one last peck on her forehead, Holmes vanished down the darkened London streets.

And Madeline was more confused than she'd been before.

**xXxXxXx**

December 10th, 1891

"Madam, a Mr. John H. Watson is here to see you."

Madeline's head bobbed up at her butler's announcement, her face lighting up and creasing with concern simultaneously. She'd been under the impression that he and Holmes had been on an outing to the continent, for at least two weeks. They'd left five days ago, after...no, she wouldn't dwell on what happened. After several days, it was still hard to fathom that the events that night happened at all. It was too perfect...

Back to the doctor waiting downstairs, then. So what on Earth-

Her breath caught in her throat. Something was wrong…dreadfully wrong. That was the only reason Watson was at her house on his own, when he was supposed to be with Holmes.

"John?" she called curiously over the banister, glimpsing only the back of his head. Pivoting on his heel, the look he shot her made her stomach clench. Tramping speedily down the stairwell, she waved away her servants and drew him into the sitting room. "Pray, sit."

He complied, almost blindly it seemed. "I'm terribly sorry to impose on you this afternoon…"

"Oh, it's no imposition, I assure you," Madeline murmured, her lips twisting into a half smile. At that, Watson shook his head, his leg bouncing in anxiety. Another indicator of something amiss. "Watson, what is going on?"

The doctor bowed his head, unable to meet her eye.

"The manhunt was a success. Moriarty is destroyed."

That statement did nothing to quell her ever-growing terror, and the icy blue of his darting gaze made her feel more anxious.

"Where's Sherlock?" she gasped, leaning forward and gripping his shoulders. John would not speak for a long moment, not even after a few shakes from Madeline. "Where is he?"

"Madeline…in destroying Moriarty, he was also destroyed. Holmes…is dead."

The unimaginable horror of losing her love ripped her to shreds inside. Reichenbach Falls was the place, where the clashing pawns of good and evil struck their finals blows at one another. In wrestling for control, the demonized math professor slipped and fell, but not before he kicked Holmes' feet out from under him and took him down. This information didn't come through until much later.

The very second after the news was broken, when her heart was obliterated and smashed to a pulp, Madeline collapsed to the floor, numbed and burned by the news. And no matter how hard she tried for the next three days, she could not stop crying.

_**For I know, in my heart, you won't take this love from me…so hold me, hold me, hold me, and never ever let me go…**_

She'd lost him, before they'd ever had a chance.

* * *

**Author's note:** NOOOOOOO! NOT SHERLOCK! Oh dear…I'm just mean, aren't I? Sorry, I kinda suck at romance, this is a first for me. Oh well...anyway, this story is over yet, so keep that in mind! Hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and I'll see you in a week yet again!

PS: PLEASE REVIEW!


	19. Blackbird

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "Blackbird" by the Beatles (in bold).

* * *

December 31st, 1892

There was a small memorial service for Sherlock Holmes three days after the news was broken to Madeline. A literal handful of people came, at the behest of Watson and Lestrade. The city would be in an uproar to find out its most prized detective and citizen had passed away at the violent hands of a madman. It was better for them, at that time, to go on not knowing and live in blissful delusion.

Madeline only wished she could've been that lucky.

The only positive during all this was that since no body was recovered they wouldn't have prolong the sorrow and suffering by waiting for the days to turn warmer for burial. At the service, John introduced her to Mycroft Holmes for the first time. The startling similarities between him and his brother just made her heart ache even more so; he was brilliant at deduction, even more so than Holmes had been, but he treated his ability as more of a pastime than anything else. He was several inches taller, and a bit heavier with his face rounded out accordingly, but the familial traits were obvious.

"So you're Mrs. St. James…Sherlock has spoken of you. You appear to be one of the few females he doesn't abhor," he murmured, not bothering beating around the bush. The lack of past tense in his sentence sparked in Madeline's brain. She only nodded and looked askance, staring at the man curiously. "Clearly you don't abhor him either."

"No, I didn't. He was a good man, and a good friend," she whispered, straightening the skirt of her dour black dress. "I will miss him dearly."

The older Holmes began to look slightly uncomfortable. "Indeed."

Madeline smirked, with no real mirth reaching her eyes. "Worry not, I won't sob all over you, sir. I've done enough of that already."

And so the conversation went around, with the topics drifting from one thing to another. Eventually, Mycroft steered her away from the rest of the group, and confided to her that he would continue renting out the Baker Street residence for a time, as he could not bear to remove his brother's things from the place just yet.

"You can visit anytime you like, when you…" he trailed off, pausing to collect his thoughts. "I wish for you to hold onto a copy of the key."

She frowned, but she could hardly refuse the offer; neither her heart nor her manners would allow it. Her hand reached out on its own accord, accepting the key to 221B and turning it over with her fingers.

She did, however, have the gall to wonder aloud, "Why give me a key, sir? Since your brother has passed, it would make more sense to just leave it all be. I don't have a purpose for being there anymore."

Mycroft shrugged, his blue eyes glowing in the low lighting of the church. "I don't agree with you."

Her frown deepened as she contemplated the object in her hand, the lines on her brow pronounced. This…was all so strange to her, and she couldn't quite put her finger to the pulse as to what. Brother Mycroft Holmes was a peculiar fellow, offering her something like this. As he walked away, tipping his hat in farewell, she regarded his back with dull interest.

Immediately she went out and made a copy for Watson, who'd reacted similarly when she gave it to him. After a few weeks, the two of them agreed it was safe enough emotionally and physically to venture into the flat, greeting Mrs. Hudson with a polite hello before meandering up the stairs. Ignoring her muttering, they were both overwhelmed when they crossed the threshold. The ghost of Holmes wandered all over the place. He was bent over the untouched chemistry set by the front window. He was lying on his worn down tiger rug, staring at the ceiling and going over the clues collected at a crime scene.

Sherlock was everywhere, as if he'd never set a single foot beyond the door.

"It's so surreal, being here without him," John mused, tearing his eyes away from the stepladder. "It's like he'll be back any moment, after he's popped 'round to get some tobacco."

Madeline sighed. "And for Mycroft to just leave it all like this…you would think this would hurt him the most, having anything to remind him of his brother just sitting around."

"That's with the understanding that Mycroft feels anything beyond boredom and hunger," Watson quipped, weakly attempting humor. "Perhaps he just doesn't want to go through everything. Not yet, in any case."

The doctor shrugged it off, being a man and pretending nothing was amiss, simply gathering up Gladstone and heading home to Mary. As she was left to her own devices, Madeline risked another look around. Everything in its place, she was always told, nothing to be moved. The rooms were poised, as if waiting for the master to return. Her mind turned this over as she snatched up the violin case, taking one thing she knew had sentimental value. Even though her mind was at work, a few tears managed to slip out as her hands cradled the instrument case. She still had a very human heart, and it was still aching deep down.

_**Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take those broken wings and learn to fly…**_

Life had gone on, and she wouldn't wallow in pity and death. Her father's life was a testament to killing oneself slowly because of lost love. She'd gone out, seen other friends, and even travelled to the continent for a spell when the furor about war died down. Still, the hole in her heart was there and couldn't be ignored no matter how hard she tried. Outrunning it did no good; she'd learned that from her brother-in-law's example. All she needed was a medium, and soon enough she found it right back where she started: at home in London, surrounded by the Watsons, Julianne, Constance…and the violin.

_**All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise…**_

A few months on in the year, Madeline was still unsure why she'd taken the violin. Perhaps because it was just something he supremely cared for, and she wanted to hold onto that. The best she could do with it was to pluck atonal clusters. She had no idea how to play, and wasn't really learning how. The strings made her fingers burn and become callused, but she still didn't know a single song.

There was something about it, in the moments of quiet and peace that her mind began troubling over the facts of the last days of Holmes' life and the present circumstances. Mycroft still had control of the rooms on Baker Street, demanding that things be kept in order and only cleaning around the stacks of items. Oftentimes, he'd asked Madeline to stop by, make sure that his will was respected. He kept it tidy, in the loosest definition of the word, and she puzzled over the reason why. Why did he insist on her specifically reviewing Mrs. Hudson's work? Why couldn't Mycroft let go? Questions with no answers circled in her brain, and the brother would not answer any of them except with a shrug and a smirk, frustrating her to no end. When the violin met her fingertips and the strumming commenced, she felt she knew what Sherlock was about whenever he began to play it.

That brief moment of connection was what she treasured. She was a smart woman, but she felt as though she touched the brilliance of Holmes' mind when she manipulated the Stradivarius. Curious how Mycroft never demanded its return, with her having no doubt that he knew where it went. She thought he supposed that she would return it one day, or at least he understood that would be in safe hands.

Her fingers clumped together, her body curled up in her armchair late one evening. She never could outrun that first conversation with Mycroft, the only significant one she'd had with the man. She knew it was important, but why?

"_He doesn't abhor you, like other females…"_

A, then to G, but she didn't know it. She just kept going, furiously thinking.

"_You don't abhor him, either."_

The bodies had disappeared at the scene. Neither was found, so logically both men were dead.

"_Sherlock has spoken of you…"_

Suddenly her fingers stopped, and there it is. The single clue of why she can't forget, why she can't leave behind the memory of a friend and a deeper feeling she won't put aside.

The present tense. Mycroft, an intelligent man, a man who knew how to choose his words carefully, had spoken in the present tense that day. As if Sherlock were still alive. Something in her soul began to burn, and then the violin slid carelessly out of her grip and banged to the floor.

The next morning, Mycroft Holmes had to suppress a smile when Carruthers placed a note on his breakfast tray.

_MH,_

_Rooms are in order. Ready for what's in store._

_MSJ._

After that day, the violin stayed locked in its case, safe and sound. Madeline's eyes were cleared, and though she'd been laid low, she was still able to figure out an answer.

_**Take these sunken eyes and learn to see, all your life you were only waiting for this moment to be free…**_

The end of 1892 arrived, a full year gone by and her hope of the truth still burned secretly. Days came and went where she would panic, wonder if she was going a bit mad for wishing and hoping, but she was resolute. Silently resolute, that was. She didn't want to run the risk of being wrong and the by-blow of it tearing John and Mary down. Though they still grieved somewhat as well, they had moved on at the birth of their son. Little William Sherlock was a happy lad, cooing and gurgling whenever she went over to visit them. Cradling William close, Madeline would think of the times she and Simon had tried time and again to have children, and how alone she was. The doctor's practice was busier than ever without Holmes running around, but he still carried the obvious pain wherever he went. Her heart twisted at keeping her theories to herself, but giving John a possible false hope was something she couldn't do to him. Not even if Madeline could bring him a little moment of joy with the thought.

On New Year's Eve, the Watsons had been invited to a patient's home to ring in the New Year, and they wanted to extend the invitation out to her as well. Madeline refused, the cold chill of the night making her nostalgic for that moment last December. Her excuse, though, was that she didn't know the man and wouldn't impose, which was partly true in any case.

Buried underneath an old afghan willed to her by Nanny Bray (poor woman had passed in November, just adding to the list of loved ones lost), she sat staring into her own fireplace. The snow swirled beyond the windowpanes, coming down inordinately hard that night. Kicking her shoes off, she curled up on the chaise longue and kept playing, the cracking coals popping and echoing throughout the house. The hands on the mantel clock ticked by, bringing her ever closer to midnight, ready to take her into the future. She grinned, pleased with herself for being slightly poetic if not a touch clichéd.

The cook and the maid were in their own homes celebrating the holiday, and her butler was about to knock off for the night as well, when a harsh pounding at the door caused her to jump. An eyebrow quirked up; who in their right mind would come visiting in the midst of a snowstorm?

"Mason?" she called out tentatively, her head turning slightly when the butler's mumbled apologies reached her ears. The door creaked open, and a blast of cold air wound from the entryway into the sitting room.

"Can I help you, sir?" Mason asked politely, gritting his teeth against the cold. It was also a means of asserting his authority over the intruder.

"Please, could I trouble you for the use of your fire?" croaked a man's haggard voice. "I'm on me way home to Lewisham, but got lost in this horrible weather. I've knocked at several houses down the way and no one answered. I'll be in and out before you know it."

Intrigued, Madeline rose from her chair and stepped out into the hallway. Slowly she eyed up the stranger, her heart pounding away in her chest in a refusal to calm down. The man in question had coal dust smeared over his face, his clothes, everything. A chimney sweep was settled against the doorpost, belying his occupation. Dirtied blonde hair spiked out from beneath his ragged cap, his face clean-shaven. Next to Mason's tall, lithe frame, the man appeared small and weak, but that was mostly because he was stooped and hugging himself in an attempt to warm up. She couldn't just let him freeze out there; the wind could very well have blown him away.

_**Blackbird fly, blackbird fly into the light of the dark black night…**_

"Let him in," she commanded lightly, showing the way into the sitting room. A poor man out in the cold, knocking on her door, specifically the front door rather than the servants' entrance…this was a man that would bear watching.

"Much obliged, mum," the chimney sweep muttered as he kneeled before the fireplace and tried to get warm again. He flashed a quick smile, the melting snow streaking past deep brown eyes. Mason attempted to follow him in, but with a curt gesture from his mistress, he was sent off to his room with the promise of coming to her aid should she need it. The chimney sweep shrugged his shoulders and shook off some excess ice while he regarded her again. "Sorry to intrude on ya, missus. It's bloody cold, pardon me language."

"It's no trouble," she waved him off, studying him closely. Choosing her spot in the armchair, she began to fish in the pocket of her dress before pulling out a handkerchief. "Here, you might want to clean yourself up a bit. At least, get some of the coal off your face."

His gaze flicked from the proffered cloth back to her, before he turned back to the fire.

"Nah, couldn't, mum."

Pressing closer, she peered into his face for a second before he shuffled sideways. "I insist. You must want to be a little clean when you get home later."

"No point, missus. Just going to be dirty again by tomorrow night, anyway."

Coolly, she pocketed the handkerchief again, allowing herself a rueful smile. "You're from Lewisham, correct? My brother-in-law has a house there. I've never been, but interesting things happen there, or so I've been told."

The man's head tilted back, and he scratched his neck. "Suppose so, mum. Just a place to live."

He pulled his cap lower, attempting to obscure his face some more, but Madeline ignored that in favor of settling her gaze onto the untouched violin case. Tentatively she stretched her fingers towards the instrument case, looking out the corner of her eyes to see if she had an audience watching her movements. Satisfied in that regard, she plucked up the Stradivarius and idly toyed with the strings. The stranger's dark eyes narrowed under the brim of his cap, and his hands clenched into fists briefly.

"Can you actually play that?" he asked. Madeline smiled and shook her head, fingers splayed across the instrument's neck.

"No, I cannot. I collected it from a friend's home for safekeeping," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "I've been strumming on it to keep it in form until he returns. Although I reckon I may have to get it tuned soon. It's been abandoned for over a year now."

The chimney sweep scoffed. "Such a lovely thing could hardly be abandoned, mum. Maybe your friend has had other things to take care of to ensure its safety. Important things must have required his attention first."

The index finger flicked at a string. "Maybe. Perhaps if he had been inclined to tell me how long it would be before he returned for it-"

"Maybe he was unable to name a date for good reason."

"You are presuming quite a bit, sir, but I'm feeling charitable this evening and won't bring you to task. My argument remains that he must not really care about it, seeing as how he's stayed away willingly for months without bothering to pick it up."

The fellow rose to his full height, a few inches above hers. "I'm not sure, madam, but you ain't giving the man full credit. He isn't here to answer to those things you've been saying against him."

She stared back at him, just looking blankly into his face until the air shifted back to a tense calmness. Turning around towards the fire and crouching again, she dropped her eyes onto the body of the violin and tutted under her breath.

"Oh dear, looks like there's a dent in it. I must've dropped it at some point."

Whirling fast on his heel, he snatched the violin out of her grip before she had time to register what was happening. Green eyes stared at her would-be companion, his jaw tightened in a controlled fury.

"Woman, you know how vital this Stradivarius is. Hours of dedication and time have gone into making it worthy of a first chair of the orchestra; to think that you could be so careless…"

He stalled out, not finding a single scratch on it. Looking up, he witnessed the wide smile spreading across her lips, her green eyes sparkling as the reality of his faux pas hit them both.

_**Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to fly…**_

She had him, forced him to break cover and admit who he really was. He gaped, stunned by her achievement. It was not an idea that was wholly unfamiliar to him; Watson and Irene had done much of the same thing when they suspected him in disguise. But with Watson, he wanted to prove his own skill at deduction. And with Irene…she was out to simply prove she could play the game as well as he. It's what attracted him to her in the first place, her devotion to being just as crafty as he was, if not better.

Madeline was crafty in her own right, he mused, but the motivation was different. She sought no personal prize, she did not desire the chance to prove she was better than him. It was no game to her.

At that moment, Mason rounded the corner and announced that the storm outside had turned into a blizzard. Nodding at the news, Madeline granted the chimney sweep the use of the spare bedroom, her conscience unable to send a poor creature out to his death. Mason was hard put to allow such a thing, but the sweep, once he regained his tongue, swore up and down that he would do nothing to harm the lady or her reputation. He was sent off ahead of her to the room with a washbowl and a towel, the violin still in his possession. Feet shuffled in the hall, with murmurs of thanks from the chimney sweeper and Mason just harrumphing back.

Madeline allowed the man twenty minutes to clean up, sending her butler off to bed with a handful of promises to call for his help if she were harassed by the stranger. Up the stairs she went, sliding into her room just as Mason locked up for the night. Her shaking hands unbuttoned her blouse, shucked off her skirts and undergarments, before the corset stymied them. Failing to remove it, she slung her nightdress over it and took down her hair. The shock was pulsing through her veins, followed by the ecstasy of being right. The house went still for a time, before the strains of an actual melody floated down the hall. Judging her moment to be right, she crept out of her bedroom and tiptoed to the spare room's door. She tapped lightly once, and immediately a familiar voice on the opposite granted entrance.

The man pivoted on his heel as she pushed the panel open, the instrument still in hand. The coal-stained jacket, hat, and gloves had been removed, the boots kicked off. The dark suspenders were slung off the shoulders and hanging at the man's waist. Most importantly, his blonde wig had been removed, as well as the excess dirt, his real hair nearly black. His face was almost totally devoid of expression, save for the spark of admiration in his eyes.

_**All your life, you were only waiting this moment to arise…**_

Sherlock Holmes stood before her, alive and unharmed.

"You," she murmured, entering swiftly and shutting the door. His calculating gaze stored away the fact that she had effectively closed them both off from the outside world, and positioned herself between him and the doorway so he couldn't get out easily. "I hope you weren't planning on going anywhere tonight."

He raised his eyebrows. "I assure you, madam, that I am not inclined to do so at this moment."

* * *

**Author's note:** This is but Part 1 of this night's revelations, and you will get the second half next week. It's been a crazy week; thankfully I had time to work on this today, since I'm sick and had to skip work. Anyway, hope you enjoyed it, please review, and I'll see you all next week!

**EDIT: **Major, major thanks to **Zenyatta19 **for the editing of this chapter and the next, as she helped me realize that I had some big revisions to make in this story. She is awesome, and I cannot thank her enough for all the help she provided. Thank you so much!


	20. Do I Love You

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Warning:** One paragraph leans towards the racier end of the teen rating. Nothing is outright stated, though, so I won't change it from T. Just be forewarned.

**Song lyrics:** "Do I Love You (Indeed I Do)" by Frank Wilson (in bold).

* * *

January 1st, 1893: 12:07 AM

Madeline's head, at the moment, was still wrapping itself around the information presented before her. When she had first suspected that Sherlock Holmes was still alive, and conspired to keep his rooms in order with Mycroft, she had allowed herself to admit that there was a small chance she could be wrong. But no matter how much she blinked, Sherlock remained standing before her. The detective had put on some weight since their last meeting, his bodily functions no longer impeded by the pursuit of the Napoleon of Crime, and the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes were more pronounced, but still, it was the same man before her.

The same man definitely, but something—more likely many things—had changed deep inside. The look in his eyes was unfathomable as he stared at her. Wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue, he attempted a half step forward before stalling and opening his mouth.

"You've drawn your conclusions, suspected me. How long?"

Remaining in place, she replied, "For a few months now. I never was sure, but…your brother never contradicted my notion that you might have lived."

Sherlock cleared his throat, burying his hands into his pockets to still them. "I'm…well, I'm glad that he didn't do so. Contradict you, I mean. But he could do no more than that. Much had to be kept secret, even from Watson, and Mycroft can keep confidences. When it's necessary."

Madeline narrowed her eyes. "Necessary?"

"Necessary for the safety of others." He let his gaze slowly scale her from top to bottom, his expression cracking for a moment as he did so. "My living would have been your death. And that, my dear, was something I never wanted to happen."

_**Here I am on bended knees, I lay my heart down at your feet…Now do I love you?**_

The palpable shock and distrust lingered, causing the pair to descend into silence. Her arms crossed over her chest, her face cast in shadow as she turned it away from him. Sherlock felt his fists clench in his trouser pockets, the sense of being out of his depth bleeding through the façade of calm detachment. That was it, really; therein lay the truth of the matter. For over a year, he'd attempted to keep himself clinical, cool, and absolutely independent of emotion. It was what needed to be done. If he always gave in and thought about returning to England only to find Moran had beaten him back, standing over his kill…Sherlock would've gone mad. Properly mad, for all his eccentricities his associates didn't know what true madness he would be capable of. It still irked him to think that the ex-colonel had that kind of power, that the potential loss of this woman because of his actions caused his heart to shrink and his stomach to churn violently. He couldn't be cold like he had to be to survive.

"You fell…and then what? You stayed away, under a misguided notion that we would all be better off without you here?"

He didn't wear the sheepish look well, but his shift in stance (partially bowed head, drooping posture) indicated his sincerity. "It wasn't misguided at all. Moriarty had a hired assassin, and he all but assured me that harm would befall each and every person in my…sphere of influence."

And for a moment, he was back on the ledge, hearing that dreadful voice promising creative ends for John and Mary, a thinly veiled threat to Mycroft.

"_I've a mind for a carriage ride when all is said and done, and the perfect companion for the endeavor."_

It still inspired him to a red rage, despite the fact that it only ever lasted for a split second.

"Me as well?" Madeline cut through the memory, dropping her arms to her sides. He'd not said a word about what Moriarty promised, but he knew she'd figure out she was part of the equation. "Funny, I thought that I had little significance in the grand scheme of his plans."

The fury subsided, but it still shook his voice. "Obviously, there was quite a bit of significance in your position if he was determined to move against you at the last stage of the battle."

The vocalization of his theories forced Sherlock to close the gap between them, forced him to honesty.

"There were reasons beyond simple revenge. He wanted to torture me in those last moments, kill me with the final thought being what he would do…"

His left hand had left his pocket, hovered just above her right. Hesitation locked up his speech and movements at that precise moment, and though she appeared to be soaking in the information, he got the distinct feeling that he was missing something.

Her body began to pivot, she was going to move away from him. "As if the threat against me mattered at the time."

This time he did not hesitate. Both hands surged forward and gripped her shoulders, preventing her from shifting even a step away from him. Pulling her closer, there was still an inch of space between them, and the air between them practically sparked. His curled fingers were firm, but not tight as they pressed their heat through her nightgown. Peering down at her, he allowed her to see behind the wall that only a privileged few had ever glimpsed. She gasped, but not from pain.

"It mattered. If every step I took and every mode of transportation I employed to put distance between me and London could speak, it would not begin to tell of how much."

They were suspended in time, locked in their positions because of mere implications. Sherlock's insides quaked at such a betrayal; openness was not his forte, he was lithe and crafty in word and in deed as a rule. But…this woman had to know.

"Sherlock…how far did you go?"

He smirked bitterly. "Let it be sufficient to say, far enough. And too far."

He wanted to let go, wanted a clean break to give those he was close to a chance to live in safety. He was a detriment to his friends, his colleagues, and he was fully aware of it. The last moment in December, when he'd succumbed and embraced Madeline, was intended to be the last. For every mile he tread on a distant shore to keep her and Watson safe, he worked just as hard to get back. Moran was a menace, the dark head of a crime ring he had no hope of keeping alive, and he had to be destroyed swiftly. Holmes had to do it, albeit from the shadows.

Her brow furrowed. "Why have you come back now? Is the danger still not great?"

"Not to a dead man. And because I am still dead to the world, you remain unimportant to the criminals whom are left. You may be watched, followed even, but you are not truly suspected. You will stay safe. For certain, I will ensure it from now on."

He released her, but did not step back. Her presence, for months a memory and a vision incurred in dreams, was intoxicating, and he could not will his feet to move.

"It has become," he pronounced carefully, "increasingly difficult to exist elsewhere in the world."

She went so still he thought humorously that she had frozen. "Why?"

The gap closed. Toe to toe they stood, touching from chest to the ground, their hands kept away from one another. He breathed in quietly, his eyes hooded as he watched the red blush sprout from her neck up to her face.

_**As long as there is life in me…I'll fill your heart with ecstasy…forever, darling…**_

Madeline breathed heavily, her tightly-held emotions starting to seep out. "Sherlock…things aren't as they were a year ago."

"Nothing remains constant," he replied, the rude vessel in his chest hammering over a cold fear that was crawling through him. "Some things change and weaken, and others…become stronger."

Had it become stronger? For the first time in a long while, he hoped—actually hoped, and not merely theorized—that was the case. It was stronger for him, but for her? They had had a time before, one that was not littered with games and death and the desire to king it over the other. That had been the summary of his time with Irene. Madeline was not that at all. What he'd had with her was something true, good, something he could not describe coherently. Whatever Sherlock Holmes could not describe, it usually did not get stored away or acknowledged, but with Madeline it was different. It always had been from the outset.

"…Yes, that's true."

His fingers twined themselves with hers, while his other hand slid up her arm until it cradled the precious side where her neck and head connected. "Undeniably."

Her green eyes seemed to grow brighter in an instant, her body almost vibrating under his touch. "Yes."

_**The very thing that I want most is just to have and hold you close…Do I love you?**_

After that declaration, neither spoke. Rather, Holmes bent his head, capturing her lips in a binding, long kiss. One kiss turned into two, and two turned into the duo backing up against the door in a passionate embrace. The blizzard blew outside, the swirling snow gathering on the windowsill in defiance of the fire burning between him and her. The night wore on, and as the candles in the room guttered out, they determined to prove what was undeniably true to each other.

**xXxXxXx**

_**From early morning until late at night, you fill my heart with pure delight…Do I love you?**_

Folded up in the bed sheets, with Sherlock's arm thrown possessively over her waist, Madeline watched through the window as the dark sky began to light up, the snowstorm finally abating. In an hour, maybe two at the most, he would have to be gone, disappear into the back alleys and become a memory again. At least, for a little while. It was agreed upon that they would not meet again for at most a week (which would conceivably drive them both a little mad, but they could handle it). They had to fool Moriarty's old compatriots for a time, but thanks to Holmes securing little hideaways throughout London, maintaining their relationship would be much easier than previously estimated.

_**Now whenever I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord your soul to keep and bring you home safe to me…forever, darling…**_

She stared at their strewn clothing (he'd managed to get the corset off her with remarkable speed, she noted in good humor), chewing her lip in contemplation.

"I have you, only to lose you again," she murmured, unsure if he was still sleeping. The hand wrapping itself in her hair and the lips pecking her temple proved otherwise.

"I'm not easily lost, darling," he muttered close to her ear, causing delightful shivers to run down her back. "Not this time."

She could take him at his word. She knew for a fact she could now.

_**Do I love you? Indeed I do, sweet darling, indeed I do…**_

"I do have a small point of concern, myself," Sherlock went on, propping himself up on an elbow.

Madeline asked, "And what is that?"

"If this is how you welcome chimney sweeps in your home, I'm just trying to imagine how you would accommodate someone of higher stature."

A pillow, which was wedged under her shoulder, was drawn out and used to smack him in the face. She grinned at the noise of indignation that emitted from him.

"Shut your mouth, Sherlock."

* * *

**Author's note:** I do realize that a "relationship" such as Madeline and Sherlock have now would be looked down upon, but hey, this is Holmes. He doesn't give a care about the norms of society, and Madeline has already had so much stuff happen to her that she has no illusions about the Victorian ideals. Besides, they're two consenting (fictional) adults, and this stuff definitely happened back then anyway, it's just all hush-hush, don't tell the little ones…

Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed the chapter, we are getting close to the end now, please review, and hopefully I'll be able to review in a week. I may be a little late, because work has really been draining the life out of me lately, but still…have a good week!

**EDIT: **Major, major thanks to **Zenyatta19 **for the editing of this chapter, as she helped me realize that I had some big revisions to make in this story. She is awesome, and I cannot thank her enough for all the help she provided. Thank you so much!


	21. Who Knows Where the Time Goes

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "Who Knows Where the Time Goes" by Fairport Convention (in bold).

* * *

May 9th, 1893

Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently against the floorboards. He'd closed up the bookshop early today, in the hopes that Madeline may arrive unhindered by nosy customers. Still, the opportunity to be alone was not totally unsavory; he was, after all, somewhat a creature of habit and it still was jarring to share space with a female after all the years he'd been on his own.

Four months passed since he'd revealed his existence to her, four months since they…_reconnected_. Even in his own mind he tried to spin their clandestine meeting off in his own words. And since then, they'd been meeting with regular irregularity. Thankfully his old hiding places around the city had remained untouched, and so with a letter dropped in her window, or a simple twist of paper stuck into her dress pocket, Holmes would give her the address of one of the places, with instructions about what time to be there and how to disguise herself.

Soon enough, she was able to see on her own who was trailing her, and how often they did so. She was getting better at slipping out the back door, dressed like an elderly woman or a street moppet, just to elude the idiots. More than once she commented on how it made her sick to think she was being that closely watched for the past year and a half.

Once they were together, they proceeded to spend their time nearly the same way as they did before Holmes' supposed death. Theoretical discussion, information on Watson and his growing family, comments on the Empire's methods of expansion, nothing went untouched. The only difference between the past and the present was that little something between them was being acknowledged, and to both their pleasures, it was being expounded upon.

Not during every meeting did they make love. It wasn't a constant, pressing urge, like the first time, but they both knew when the fires had reached a fever pitch and when they were both too cold to be inclined towards that. Many times they would sit, her reading some novel and nestled up against him while he would draw figures in the air and ask her opinion every now and again about crimes he'd read about in the paper. But when they did come together, it was an explosion, a mad rush of blood and feeling, and it left them both mildly shocked and incredibly satisfied.

_**Across the evening sky, all the birds are leaving…But how can they know it's time for them to go?**_

Madeline was his link to the outside world, as Watson was still unaware of his return from the grave. Sherlock was obdurate on the subject of his old partner, claiming that it was unnecessary to endanger both their lives, and that if Madeline were ever caught she would probably be allowed to go, being a woman and all. He wasn't fooling her; departing from his profession also meant departing from his best friend, and as of yet he was unwilling to go back to either. Coming back from the dead professionally would be tough, and explaining once more how he had tricked the world for a year would most likely not go over well with John. Besides, the doctor had his wife, and his son, and the practice. Sherlock Holmes didn't need to be a part of the equation (no matter how many times Madeline objected to the situation.)

Today was the first time he invited Madeline to come to the bookstore directly. Early on he'd made her promise not to set foot in the shop, for fear of blowing both their covers. She fought him on it every other time she stole away to his hidey-holes, claiming that they would be in no more danger than at that moment.

The only way to ensure that, Sherlock had argued would be for her to spend the night at some other place, and then sneak out to the bookshop. He should've known better than divulge that idea; the gleam she got in her eye afterward made his stomach drop in a strange combination of anxiety and admiration.

So now one convoluted scheme later, she had supposedly boarded a train to go into the country, and she would be dropping by within the hour. And speak of the highly attractive devil, there she was coming through the unlocked back door.

"Hullo?" Madeline whispered, harried after her small adventure across the city. Losing the two idiots practically assigned to follow her was a challenge, and it was even harder to do so jumping off a train just about to leave the station. Throw a dress with several layers and a faux suitcase into the mix, and it spelled for an escapee disaster. Somehow she'd managed, and so tiptoed up the back staircase into Holmes' apartments above the bookstore.

"Welcome to my home away from home," Holmes remarked idly, nodding over at her from his position by the window. He was taking in the view of his old flat which was literally glaring at him from across the road. He never thought he could miss a building so much in his life…

Madeline crossed over quickly and dropped a quick kiss on his lips, smiling as she rose up again.

Well, if one could miss a woman one saw only three days ago, perhaps it was plausible to miss the old rooms. Glancing up at her, he read her expression easily. God help him, he was endeared to a woman he could skim over like a book and still have her make him feel as though his heart was turning over in his chest.

Pounding at the muscle beneath the pectoral, Holmes continued, "I take it the endeavor was not as simple as you first thought. I imagine the seven o'clock train must be carrying away a piece of your hem, and the hansom you hired obviously was unable to avoid the massive puddle on Brereton Street and splattered you with mud."

"So you're happy to see me then?"

He shrugged. "Moderately, I suppose."

She raised an eyebrow, and did not deign to comment. Instead she dropped onto his lap and laid her head on his shoulder. Her entire body sagged with exhaustion, and with the repressed emotions she'd been locking down for the past several weeks. She didn't know how much longer she could keep Holmes in the dark.

"…No improvement in Mary's condition, then?"

Her green eyes flashed, and her jaw dropped. "How did you…? I haven't said a word about Watson or Mary being sick."

"Madeline, I would be remiss if I let my skills as a detective fall out of use," he responded, a smirk on his face but no real amusement in it. So he had seen, and he had heard in some way, that Mary had developed a hacking cough, and growing weaker as the days passed. That Watson was cradling his boy ever closer in fear of his infection, and fearing the worst. That Cavendish Place was constantly in darkness, and even the locals dodged the place as if death had already occurred.

_**I have no thought of time, for who knows where the time goes? Who knows where the time goes?**_

"No change," Madeline said, staring into space. "I went to see them yesterday, but Mary was barely able to acknowledge my presence, let alone speak."

The arms encircling her tightened, belying Holmes' very real grief at his friend's dilemma. His face however, was quite blank.

Her voice dropped lower as she went on. "And as I went to leave, I saw her…I saw her cough up…blood."

Holmes rubbed his eyes, trying to not let the horror in his female companion bleed into him.

"Consumption."

"I can see no other alternative. I asked Watson about it, but he was firm in saying she did not protract the illness," she told him, fidgeting now with the folds of her dress. It was like childhood all over, a little brother succumbing to bloody death, and a mother spraying her fluids across the bedding in an attempt to breathe. She rather hoped she'd never know someone else who'd fall prey to the evil disease, and now Mary was fighting for her very life. At the rate she was progressing, if she lived (and that was a very small chance of happening), she'd be so weak that the next time she'd be ill she would die from that instead.

"He's denying the truth to cope," the detective stated, lifting the lady off his lap and deciding to pace the room. For all he'd ever put Watson through during the years of partnership, and for all that he'd heard of the doctor's exploits in the army, he couldn't imagine the pain of truly losing someone you cared for. At least, he only had an inkling. It was one of the things Sherlock actually never wanted to know.

"Sherlock, perhaps…"

"No." He knew she would try to argue that he should come back now, and go to his best friend. It was simply out of the question, in his mind at least. And it had nothing to do with Mary herself; they had, after their initial dislike of one another, become decent friends. She had become a sort of mothering figure whenever he visited the doctor's home, and to lose a mother for the second time was awful, but bearable. "It's not the proper time."

What he couldn't bear would be the shock in John's eyes. The denial. The feelings of fury and betrayal. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if he found a measure of hate in his friend's countenance.

"It's been a year, longer than that! And his wife is dying," Madeline choked, staring him down. When he wouldn't look at her, she jumped up and stood in his path. Her hands gripped Holmes' forearms tightly, forcing him to feel something. "He needs a friend."

"He has you. You are, after all, not deceased," Sherlock pointed out feebly. "There is much work to be done before I can even contemplate reclaiming my name and my life."

Jabbing a finger into his chest, she snarled, "Then you best start working, Mister Holmes. There won't be much of a Boswell to come back to if you leave it too long."

_**Sad, deserted shore, your fickle friends are leaving…Ah, but then you know it's time for them to go…But I will still be here, I have no thought of leaving…**_

This was why he liked her. The spirit and the maddening ability to keep him on his toes were some of her better features. However, at the moment it was a tad irritating.

"I understand that, madam," he growled, his gaze becoming hard as flint. She, for one, was not wholly intimidated by that look. Still, she did back away and give him some ground. The sadness in her face grew, and she shook her head.

"I hope you do, sir. I really hope you do."

Ah, the pitiful woman routine. He'd seen it thousands of times on many cases. The downcast eyes, the slumping shoulders, the entire ensemble screaming for someone to hold them and promise everything would turn out alright.

And damn him, it was starting to work. Womanly charms were supposed to have absolutely no bearing on him. He supposed, as he gathered her into a tight embrace, that was the trade-off for letting any female into your life. No man would be utterly immune, not even him (he still had trouble dealing with the crying, though, and had walked out of the room to avoid it on a few occasions).

She squeezed him back as well, and the unsaid message was clear: this was more for his support than hers, and she wanted him to know it.

Perhaps it would be best for the great Sherlock Holmes to rise from the ashes, for all their sakes.

**xXxXxXx**

May 19th, 1893

"And so, today we bury Mary Elizabeth Watson…"

The priest's words bounced into her ears, but were barely registered. It was all Madeline could do just to hold on to little Willy and somehow hold John's hand at the same time. Three days after discussing with Sherlock a plan to resurrect him, Mary finally gave in and died from the illness. Watson, numb with grief, refused to speak of it, refused to do anything but cling to his boy and woodenly prepare for the burial service.

Offering up silent prayers for the woman trapped in the casket, for the family left behind, and for her own family to meet Mary in Heaven, Madeline had to wonder if prayers were doing her friend any good at the moment. To anyone who has borne grief before, it was not a thing to get used to. If anything, losing yet another person you truly cared about cut you even deeper, knowing that they are gone and better yet knowing there was not a damn thing you could do about it.

Which was why she offered no empty placations to Watson on the way to the church. She just held his hand, and kept an eye out for the shadow following them down the streets to the cemetery.

_**Who knows where the time goes? And I am not alone while my love is near me…**_

Holmes was there throughout the service, hiding first in the eves of the church, and then far away in a grove of trees at the burial plot. As the final prayer was said and the casket lowered, a branch cracked underneath his weight, the only incident that dared betray his presence. The mourners began to disperse, and John bustled ahead with William draped in his arms to herd them all to Cavendish Place. Madeline tarried, saying she'd be along soon enough, but that she had more good-byes to make. It was the first time she'd ever used her dead relative as an excuse to meet with Holmes, and the guilt of both lying to John and about her family slid heavily down her throat as she swallowed.

Darting over to the grove, she barely had time to flatten herself against a tree trunk before the sleuth dropped down from the nearest oak. Uncomfortably they just shifted on their feet, avoiding looking at the fresh plot several yards away, or the curious glance the stragglers threw in their direction before going home.

_**I have no fear of time, for who knows how my love grows? And who knows where the time goes?**_

A few token tears crept out of Madeline's eyes, and her black skirts rumpled as she crushed her body against Sherlock's. He held her close, allowing his forehead to rest against hers and closing his eyes. The plans were set, the traps baited…he only wished he hadn't been too late. He'd made a mistake, leaving Watson without his closest friend to help him through the trauma. It was rare, but he would admit to this one after the fact. Pressing a kiss to his lady's head, he whispered one word before melting into the background yet again. The one word, though, buoyed her hope, and let her know that things were going to be set right.

"Soon…"

* * *

**Author's note:** I killed Mary! I am SUCH a horrible person…although she did die in the books, so I'm not too upset with myself. I don't remember if Doyle ever declared how Mary died; it seemed like more of an afterthought, a way to just get her out of the picture and allow Watson to fully engage in Holmes' life again, so perhaps it really doesn't matter how she died.

Anyway…yes, Madeline and Sherlock are officially a couple. They fight, they make up, they hang out. Voila! Yay…sadly, I must inform you all that we are actually getting close to the end of this story, but we're not there yet! I still have stuff to tie up, and so I shall see you all next week. And the update WILL be late this time, as a huge camp is coming in and I will be working a ton next week. Sorry, but please enjoy this chapter, review, and I will see you soon!


	22. Black and White Town

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Warning:** Goes towards the higher "T" rating at the end, toes that thin line. Just letting you know.

**Song lyrics:** "Black and White Town" by The Doves (in bold).

* * *

May 22nd, 1893

"Soon", translated from Sherlock's sense of time, was thankfully only three days. The plan was executed perfectly. Madeline had played a part in getting John out of the house and securing a good nanny for the littlest Watson, insisting that he come with her to a visit to the bookshop on Baker Street. At first he refused, but after she first flattered and demanded, and then settled for simply pushing him out the door, he bounced morosely beside her in the hansom cab.

"This place has first edition copies of some of the best books. I even found a First Folio of Shakespeare's works!" she gushed, laying it on thickly. However, given how despondent Watson was over his wife's death, he didn't pay any notice to her theatrics. Realizing her words were falling upon deaf ears, she settled back into her seat and reviewed the plan.

"_Sherlock, he isn't an imbecile. He will figure out that I'm putting on a ruse," she'd argued the day before, struggling to adjust one of her stockings. After the corset, stockings were her least favorite part of apparel, and these new ones she was wearing were refusing to stay up. Suddenly feeling embarrassed, she pivoted so she could hike up the skirt of her dress discreetly so Holmes couldn't see her troubling with them. It was no matter, anyway; the detective's appraising gaze slid over her, before his attention was turned back to the window and the street below._

"_True. But, and this is the sticking point, he most likely will not care. And in any case, I particularly care either. You just need to get him here," Holmes had responded, idly tapping his fingers on the windowsill. Clucking his tongue at her stumbling fingers, he crossed over to her and tugged the offending article up her leg himself. Madeline tried her damndest not to be distracted by the digits brushing over her thigh, and Sherlock continued as if nothing had happened._

"_I would bring Watson here myself, were I not deceased," he grunted. "Well, that will be easily rectified in just twenty-four short hours…damn, woman, why on earth do you bother with these things at all?"_

"_Propriety, my dear Holmes, requires me to," she chuckled, wrenching his hands away. The odd position it put them in (him dropped to one knee and her standing before him, hand-clasped), was smoothly ignored and did not deter her speech. "So after I bring John here on a lark, then what must I do?"_

"_Lay low," was the answer. "Moran is a tricky man, made even more so because of his forays in the armed and criminal worlds. It would be best if you were to hide until he is hauled off in irons."_

"_Do you not require assistance at all? I can handle myself."_

_Holmes rose to his feet, sweeping over her with his eyes almost worriedly. Then he shook his head, peering at her hairline. _

"_As…commendable as your bravado is, my dear, it is rather misplaced. I assure you, Watson is all the assistance I require. Well, him and Lestrade of course. It would be a shame to capture Moriarty's last partner and not have him formally arrested."_

_She frowned. "Are you saying I am a liability?"_

_He shrugged. "More of a pressure point that a villain would be apt to use against me. Were you to be captured, of course."_

_With that, Holmes sauntered away, dropping himself down on the sofa nearby._

"_Pity the poor man who attempts to kidnap you, though," he murmured, a smile twitching up the corner of his lips. "He'd be driven mad by your questions and unwillingness to shut up."_

_Madeline smirked, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Unless he was already half-mad in the first place."_

_A finger jabbed the air in her direction._

"_Ah, but I never kidnapped you. You, as it turns out, came quite willingly."_

Her face flushed as the memory completed itself, and so she fought to keep her thoughts of such things under control. She had a task to perform, and she was determined to do it well. A hand pressed against her forehead; Watson had finally seen something was amiss, and was nervous for her. Madeline furrowed her brow in confusion, and asked him what he was doing.

"Doctorial duties. You're certainly not running a fever, thank goodness. Was worried for a minute there," he muttered, attempting to smile. It, however, did not reach his sad blue eyes. "So what else has your blood all riled up?"

Blinking, she cast a glance out at the street sign they'd passed, sighing wistfully.

"Memories," she whispered, pinching herself for her choice of words. John squirmed slightly in his seat, resembling his young son in that respect. Now she'd made the situation totally uncomfortable. "I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize," the doctor tried to convince her, thumping his cane against the floor of the cab. Luckily, they pulled up in front of the bookshop at that moment, and with awkward smiles the duo descended from the hansom. For awhile they stood at the door, staring across the street, Watson contemplating all the times he'd spent with his dead friend, Madeline smirking inwardly. Oh, if he only knew what was going to happen in just a few short hours…

_**Here comes the action, here it comes at last…**_

"Shall we?" she cut through the silence, gesturing grandly at the doorway. John humored her with a grin, sweeping his arm out and propping the panel open. Immediately she flitted inside, ducking into the darkest shadows. Her part of the bargain was over. It was up to Sherlock to complete the reunion.

"Oi, welcome to the shop, my good man!"

And speak of the devil, there he was. Risking a quick look around the bookcase, Madeline snickered at the sleuth's getup. He'd donned a bushy grey beard with a matching wig, an old bowler hat and a suit padded to make him appear larger in girth. Sleeve protectors were stretched up past his elbows and a set of bifocals were perched upon a false, pointed nose. Biting down on her own wrist to smother the giggles, she missed John's response, but gathered by Holmes' flying hands, he was about to direct him to the back study.

Choosing to pull an old chair into the back corner and thumb through a beaten-up copy of "The Count of Monte Cristo", she became so engrossed in her pastime that a great jarring thump was the only thing that could pull her out. Yelping, the tome flew from her hands and bounced across the floor. Jumping out of her seat, she jogged towards the back study with fear panging in her heart.

_**Lord give me a reaction, Lord give me a chance…**_

Just before she could knock on the study door, it was jerked open, revealing a distraught-looking Holmes and a pale Watson passed out on the ground.

"That…is not what I expected him to do," Sherlock gasped, breezing past her to get some water. "Prop him up for me, would you?"

Thoroughly surprised, she complied quickly, heaving up John's shoulders and letting him rest against her. The layers of her dress made it nearly impossible to sit, so she settled for kneeling against the hard wood and waiting. Holmes eventually came back, bearing both water and a small tumbler of brandy. Without wasting another moment, the detective splashed the cold water onto his friend's face, and as he came to, dribbled the liquor down his throat.

Coughing and spluttering, Watson blinked a few times before rubbing his eyes hard. The action did not erase the concerned sleuth hovering beside him.

"Holmes…you're…you're alive?" he wondered, his voice cracking. Forcing himself to sit up fully, he then realized Madeline was there. "And you knew?"

"I barely knew," she confessed, trying to wave away his accusatory look. "I only knew long enough for me to get you here to see him."

Which was almost the truth; it was close enough that it was all Watson needed to know. The news that she'd known that Holmes was alive for four months, and that the two had been engaging in a relationship without anyone's knowledge, was a secret they both decided they couldn't share.

The doctor squinted suspiciously, and then turned a glare onto his old friend.

"You'd better explain, Holmes. I've been through hell these past few months, so the story better be damn good."

It was rare for John to swear so much; it was only when he was well and truly agitated that he let his tongue slip. Readily acquiescing, Holmes spilled forth the lurid tale of his escape once more, and Madeline could listen to it as more of an enjoyable tale this time around, rather than as a lengthy explanation for a necessary pummeling of the heart. At first, Watson found it unbelievable. He'd reviewed the scene, saw two sets of footprints going up, and none coming back. There was the letter on the wall, the missing bodies…but to have the man in the flesh contradicted everything. Coldly and precisely Holmes explained the deception, expounded on his travels across the world, and how he intended to cut the loose ends of Moriarty's unraveled gang off.

"…That was a good story," Watson breathed after a few moments of quiet, massaging his temples. "Holmes, this is insane. To go to great lengths to achieve your goal is nothing new for you, but to pretend to be dead? To leave everything behind, and fool your friends?"

"I had to. If I hadn't have died, you wouldn't have lived," Sherlock said, leaning against the far wall. "For the sake of you, your wife and your son, I couldn't come back. Not until it was safe enough."

Madeline found it sweet, in a strange way, that he would not say that he'd considered never coming back. Wanting to protect his friend from his own foibles was endearing.

"Well, there's one less to worry about," Watson answered bitterly, crossing his arms. "Mary…died."

Holmes simply nodded, wincing against the pain he could see in his friend's face. The doctor's shoulders slumped forward, and started shaking again with repressed grief.

"She's dead, Holmes…what am I…what am I going to do?" he whimpered, drawing his knees up to his chest. Madeline curled an arm around his shoulders, kneeling beside him again, and met Sherlock's look of alarm with a pair of raised eyebrows. This was no time to remark on the downward spiral John was going down. He just needed to say something, anything, to help him out.

_**You should follow me down…there's no color and no sound…gotta get out of this black and white town…**_

"You can help me," Holmes told him, crouching down. "I won't pretend I didn't know of her passing, as I don't make it a rule to lie to my friends. But I do know that Mary wouldn't want you to be like this. She'd want you to press on, whatever it took. So please…brother…help me destroy this criminal. Honor her memory by being strong, and continuing living."

Watson slowly raised his head, a few held-in tears glittering in his eyes. The blue irises became ice-cold, and he took the hand that Holmes had extended earlier. Pulling him up on his feet, the sleuth soon found himself shaking his friend's hand warmly and a smile spread across his lips. Nothing was spoken, but both charged out the door, leaving Madeline in the dust.

_**Here comes some action…put sound in my life…**_

Laughing, she seated herself at the desk, and began counting down.

"Three…two…one."

Holmes burst back in, Watson in tow, both of them looking confused.

"Woman, do you know where my-"

Silently she opened the drawer on the right-hand side and retrieved two revolvers. Pushing them across the desk's surface, she could only watch in fascination as both men looked like two boys in a candy shop. Palming their weapons, they straightened their jackets and ran out again, John tipping his head in farewell at her.

_**Gotta get out to get compensation, gotta get out to get this to play…**_

She smiled brightly; the boys were back in their element once again. It had been far too long.

**xXxXxXx**

_**It's been plaguing me now…this is a dangerous place now…this is a dangerous place.**_

Moran certainly made his role as a criminal known when he tried to "kill" Sherlock Holmes, and his idiocy was proven when the real detective jumped out of the shadows and tackled him after shooting the dummy he'd set up hours before in the window. Mrs. Hudson was going into conniptions over both the return of her bohemian tenant and the shootout in front of her own house, but with a self-prescribed sleeping pill she was dozing her fury off on the sitting room sofa.

Lestrade was, amusedly, ecstatic for Holmes' return, saying as much when he and Clarky carted the gang member out ("Those morons down at the Yard are no help at all!"). Once the hubbub had dissipated, Madeline locked up shop across the street and traversed over to 221B, nearly crying with joy at stepping over the threshold and knowing Sherlock was home.

Following the sound of hushed voices, she ascended the stairs with ease, remembering back to when she'd hobbled up them with a crutch and her arm looped over someone else's shoulders. It was hard to believe that it was only two years ago since the accident. But she wouldn't dwell on it, not while it was time to celebrate Holmes' true return home.

He and the doctor were seated in his rooms, two chairs pulled up to an end table. Fire crackled in the hearth, casting a soft light onto the room. A tea tray was set up before them, and the pair was chatting amiably as though no time had passed. And given that the room was still in the same state it was in over a year ago (with a little less dust, Madeline noticed, indicating that Mrs. Hudson had tried to do some cleaning), it could be that it never had. Well, except for the tacked-up sheet over the broken window glass, that is. The door was wide open, and so she walked in without preamble, seating herself at the table and joining them for tea.

"It's good to see you two in one piece," she said, pulling Watson into a quick hug and giving Holmes a pat on the shoulder after that.

"Yes, yes. Colonel Moran was stubborn and very difficult to apprehend, but we managed," the detective murmured nonchalantly. A strange-looking gun was in his grip, and he caught the lady staring at it as she was pouring her tea. "How clever, for him to convert this old rifle into an airgun, and try to use it to murder me."

He proceeded to explain intricacies of the weapon, pointing out where and how Moran had converted it, and then he discharged it straight across the room into the wall. The r on the VR had just received an extra curl on its extending leg. The trio just looked at the smoking hole for a moment, and then went back to conversing about the adventure. Watson, being the more colorful storyteller, was the primary speaker, and he had a rapt audience. With amusement, Sherlock noted how dilated Madeline's pupils were becoming as the story progressed. She crowed and gasped at the appropriate moments, as well as expressing worry for their safety, but even he could see she was excited by the danger. It was an adventure, one that pleased her sense greatly.

The good doctor glanced at the clock across the room, and yawned, "As thrilling as it was to be back in action…and as good as it is to see you alive, Holmes, I have to be going. William will already be abed for three hours now, and so I must get home myself."

Sherlock frowned, but nodded him away. "Quite right, old boy. Can't have the child suddenly waking and deciding to destroy the house."

Madeline snorted. "Given his namesake, I wouldn't be surprised if he would do so, even at his age."

Both the men grinned at that, and Watson held out his hand expectantly towards her. Confused for a second, she then remembered that she was supposed to pretend that she had no reason to stay late either. However, once she shot a sideways glance at Holmes, eager and back in the place he truly belonged, she was determined to change the tack of her proposed course.

_**You should follow me down…there's no color and no sound…gotta get out of this black and white town…**_

Bidding Holmes good-bye, she placed her hand into the crook of Watson's elbow and let him walk her halfway down the stairwell. Abruptly she stopped, looked longingly back towards the rooms, and then back into John's confounded face.

"You go on home, Doctor. I'll be fine…I need to speak to Holmes, alone," she said softly, letting her hand drop to her side. Watson's lips twitched, but he held back a grin. Instead, he leaned forward and hugged her hard.

"Very well. Tell him the truth now, no use hiding it any longer," he told her, thinking that she would finally confess her feelings for the long-lost detective. She was grateful that he couldn't see her massive grin at that moment; it took all her strength not to laugh.

"No use," she replied, tiptoeing back upstairs and leaving the doctor to his departure. A sort while later the front door opened and closed, the lock sliding into place. Arriving back at Sherlock's door, she leaned against the frame and watched as he ghosted a hand over his belongings. For a few moments he lingered by his chemistry table, dusting off a few of the test tubes with his jacket, and then he moved onto the stacks of papers and letters left over since before he'd left. It delighted him to see that absolutely nothing about his rooms had changed, that even a year and a half later it would still be the perfect blend of organized chaos.

"Staying, then?" he queried, not even having to glance over his shoulder to know she was there. A few quick steps and her arms constricted around his waist, confirming that he was indeed not alone.

"For awhile," she whispered, her chin resting on his shoulder. As they both stared down at the glass tubes, glittering in the weak light from the fireplace, she heard him sigh almost inaudibly. It was a breath of content. "Welcome home, Mr. Holmes."

Smirking at how absurd the statement sounded, he did nothing but nod towards the wall.

"Ah, that's why you've stayed: you truly want to give me a warm homecoming," he pronounced, turning around in her grip to face her. Her green eyes glowed in the low light, flashing with something akin to urgency. He knew that look all too well now, how it could spark a fever within him that would make his skin burn and freeze at the same time with…anticipation.

_**You should follow me down…**_

"Unless you're opposed to it," she quipped, pressing up against him. Automatically his arms acted of their own accord and held her there, not wanting her to let up. Her eyebrows jumped up at the stirrings of his body, and she smiled devilishly. "Which you clearly are not against it at all. In fact, if I were to hazard a theory, I would say-"

Rolling his eyes at her attempts to mimic his behavior, he cut her off effectively with a deep kiss, with her responding in kind. This was a splendid welcome, being back in his old rooms, back to his life, with one person he knew could never leave him willingly. Nothing could ruin this situation.

**xXxXxXx**

Approximately five minutes away from Cavendish Place, Watson discovered that somehow he'd left his cane behind at the Baker Street residence. In all the time since he'd gotten his God-awful injury, he'd only mislaid his cane a grand total of five times, and three of those instances had been Holmes' doing. Hastily he tapped the side of the cab, begging the driver's pardon but instructing him to turn around and go back. The man grumbled, but with the promise of extra money for his trouble, he accepted his fate and maneuvered the carriage back the way they'd come.

Fifteen minutes went by, with Watson stewing over his mistake. How could he have possibly forgotten? Perhaps being in the company of a friend thought to be dead, in the one place that had any remnants of feeling like a home, was too much for him. With him being half-supported by Madeline down the stairs earlier, he'd given no thought to it. Even getting in the cab went smoothly. It was only when he was wondering why his right hand felt so light and free that he noticed it was gone.

"We're here, sir," the cabbie announced gruffly, reining in the horses. No sense putting anymore thought into it, he reasoned with himself, and so he shuffled down from his perch inside, cringing as the pressure on his leg increased.

"Can't believe I was stupid enough to do that," the doctor grunted, pulling out his key and swiftly unlocking the door. "One part of my life turns around, and then I go and do something ridiculous."

Step, wince, step, wince, through the door and over to the sideboard where he pulled out a candle and holder. Striking a match, he gave himself the overly-needed light for the black entryway. Step, wince, step, wince. Soon enough he made it to the darkened stairs, and he knew how horribly excruciating it was going to be going up. Clinging tightly to the railing, his candle dipped precariously with each labored movement.

Suddenly, something crashed above him, and Holmes' well-known muffled snort of pain floated into his ears. Watson groaned; what could have the sleuth possibly done to himself in such a short amount of time?

"A number of things," he answered himself out loud, and so he attempted to step lively, in the vain hope of coming to his friend's rescue once again. Finally he made it up to Holmes' domicile, with the door ajar and the light semi-blocked by shadows. Pushing the wooden panel away, he started, "Holmes, now what have…"

The words died on his tongue, as astonishment fully slammed his brain. No, his eyes had to be betraying him, there was no way he was seeing what he was seeing.

But they weren't. His two closest friends were on the floor, bodies entwined. Madeline was, indeed, stripped of her dress, bum roll, corset and stockings, left only in a petticoat and chemise. Her hair was shaken loose from its pins, creating a perfect frame around her mortified face. And she was straddling Holmes, his shirt and jacket gone, but thankfully with his trousers still on. The detective was resting on his elbows, but sat up immediately when he'd heard Watson's voice, the look on his face deliberately blank.

The doctor could do nothing but stammer. "What…I can't…argh!"

"Oh God," Madeline gasped, wrapping her arms around herself and praying that nothing was visible.

John's hand shot out, gathering up the cane he'd left propped by the doorway, and he covered his eyes with the other before clattering loudly down the flight of steps and out to his waiting cab. Holmes rested on one of his elbows again, and he let out a sound like snorting horse.

"Welcome home indeed," he muttered.

* * *

**Author's note:** …And Watson's brain just exploded. Just like yours probably did. :-P

Sorry, but that part just wrote itself, I couldn't help it. And I'm sorry for being late! With a four-hundred person camp in at work, I've just been exhausted after all the garbage tossing and room cleaning. And since I'm going away for the weekend, I might be late again next week, so sorry again! I'm just a chronic apologizer! Please review this, thanks for reading, and I'll be seeing you again soon!

PS: "A Very Potter Sequel"…is BRILLIANT! Go watch it on Youtube if you haven't seen it yet!


	23. There's A Fine, Fine Line

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "There's A Fine, Fine Line" from the musical _Avenue Q_(in bold).

* * *

June 23rd, 1893

To say the very least, the next few times Madeline, Sherlock, and John were all together were slightly awkward. Having one of your closest friends walk in just as you were about to make love to your other friend/secret significant other was just…mortifying. Well, to Madeline it was. Holmes, as it turned out mere minutes after Watson had run out the door, did not find it all that unseemly.

"_I have done far worse things that he has discovered me doing," he rationalized to her, nodding specifically at the tin box on the mantle that housed his needle and recreational drugs. Things had cooled off significantly since the doctor's hasty departure, but they were at least sitting together on the floor, the detective's arms slung around her body. "This…is nothing that we cannot handle."_

"_We?" she asked pointedly, surprised that he'd referred to himself as part of the relationship. In fact, she never thought he'd go so far as to lump them together except when formulating a plan. Staring him down, he did not blink or shy away from it._

"_We. We are both adults, we were found out together. Naturally we are both going to have to answer to Mother Hen about this."_

"_Oh, and I'm sure he'll be so grateful that you still think of him as a mothering figure."_

_He smirked at her playful jab."Of course he will be."_

Eventually, Watson came around to accepting their odd companionship, enough to where he stopped shooting them both looks of confusion, that would be followed with a million questions as to how and why this had happened so fast. Learning that they'd been doing this for four months secretively surprised him even more so than the idea of it all. It took all of Holmes' willpower, at alternate intervals, to not laugh in his face or chide him for being so utterly prudish.

But the situation took the time needed, and John was accustomed to his partner engaging in something both positive and stimulating. He wasn't actively using cocaine; occasionally Watson and the lady would stumble upon Holmes writhing in a haze, but not as often as before. The sleuth had reentered the world of crime and justice with vigor, pursuing the clues and perusing the newspapers with more interest. He had somebody to pose questions to in the dark of night, and for once it wasn't the frustrated doctor who was trying to get some sleep before doing rounds at the Veteran's Hospital the following morning.

And thank the Lord, he'd found a woman who wasn't Irene Adler. If Sherlock would be with anyone, John hoped that he would not turn once again to the morally-questionable female con artist.

"Have you heard from Irene at all? I'm under the impression that since Moriarty is dead, she would be free to call upon you at any time," Watson risked asking, walking with his friend towards a new crime scene. The Forester Gang, a rough bunch of Irish immigrants who thrived off pickpocketing and small-time heists, were suspected of robbing the British Museum of pieces of their Egyptian Collection and turning the jewelry and such over for a quick profit.

Mary, before she'd died, had confessed that she wished he'd never given up the world of deduction. She'd hoped to see him at the game, even without Sherlock, again one day; it made him feel part of the greater good, she understood that.

'_It was as if she was reading my mind…'_

"Hmm? No, no, The Woman does not know of my return to the land of the living as of yet," Holmes responded, barreling down an alleyway suddenly. Forcing himself to jog, Watson was a little more than miffed that Sherlock had not only run ahead of him, but stopped the conversation in its tracks. When he found him, the detective was pulling out his lockpicks and closely examining a doorway. "Somebody stripped the keyhole."

"Trying to break in, no doubt," the doctor supplied, leaning against the wall and watching the hunched-over man work. "Don't you fear her returning…and finding you out?"

"I don't fear anyone, least of all Irene," Holmes grumbled, giving the picks an extra shake in annoyance. "She and I have had the discussion. When I told her I didn't want to get information from her anymore, that also entailed the agreement that she would not come see me again. I should think she would find a way to honor that."

"Like she did when she barged in on Madeline's fencing demonstration?"

_**There's a fine, fine line between a lover and a friend…there's a fine, fine line between reality and pretend…**_

"…I reiterated the point when she approached me after that."

Watson chuckled, "That's good, but I do not believe that will stop her, if the news of your revival reaches her."

"But it won't, correct? You'll keep your discoveries out of The Strand, yes?" Holmes queried, nearly glaring him down in the process. The door's locks clicked at that moment, and the wooden portal slowly swung inward. Guiltily John's eyes slid towards the inside of the darkened building, not willing to admit the truth.

"Well…"

"Damn it," Sherlock muttered, shaking his head and entering the place, his eyes grazing over the heaps of stolen articles lining the inner room. It was a storage area for the notorious thieves, and he had stumbled upon the most critical pieces of evidence, the booty. Idly capturing a scarab beetle made out of solid gold, he continued, "Perhaps if your editors were not so demanding…"

"It's a vicious cycle, my friend; the public wanted more, I fobbed them off for a year, and then you came back, so…what else could I do? People I've never met have begged me on the streets to tell of the next adventure, of news of you. I have no talent or desire for lying, not to desperate people," he confessed, tapping his cane against a small statue of Anubis. The jarring noise caught the attention of the two inept "guards" who had been left behind to watch over the treasure. Sharing a quick look with Sherlock, the two engaged in a hasty hand-to-hand combat with the bumbling oafs. The detective dispatched his man with a kick to the diaphragm and a downward chop to the trapezius. The doctor dealt his dolt several whacks to the head with the cane and a jaw-crushing uppercut.

As they were dragging the thieves out the door and ready to flag down a constable, Watson realized something.

"How do you do that?" he wondered, quirking up an eyebrow.

Holmes concentrated with great interest on the unconscious men's pockets, rifling through them for more data.

"Do what, old chap?"

"Change the subject so subtly that I almost forgot the original conversation," he replied, putting his hands on his hips in indignation. Matters were not helped by Sherlock's shrugging shoulders.

"Just a talent, I suppose," the sleuth murmured, smirking up at his friend. John would not let the subject be put aside so easily, though.

"She probably already knows, and is picking her moment to return," he surmised aloud, much to the irritation of his friend. Eliciting no response, he pressed on, "She will choose the most inconvenient time to come back, too, knowing her…"

"And so? What if she does? It hardly matters to me what Irene chooses to do with herself anymore," groused Holmes rapidly, dealing one of the thieves a short jab when he started to rouse. His words and actions revealed more to the doctor the inner workings of his partner's mind on the matter than the last twenty minutes of wheedling. Waving down the alley at the passing policeman, he spat, "She has always been obligingly hardheaded when she wants to be; she will need to be set to rights."

"Finally disillusioned with your princess of petty larceny?" Watson dared venture, putting in one last comment before the officer reached them. Sherlock's face began to grow hard, his detective look taking over, and so John thought he'd not heard. But he did.

_**And you never know 'til you reach the top if it was worth the uphill climb….there's a fine, fine line between love and a waste of time.**_

"Adler was never mine," he whispered fiercely, thinking back on all the times he'd cared for her and she left him for the next job, the next theft. He came in as a mere second to her greedy desire for more of everything, and Mr. Holmes was not one to be second best. "Just as I am not, nor ever will be, hers."

**xXxXxXx**

How convenient, Holmes mused, that Watson should give him a friendly warning and reminder that Irene Adler was likely to make her presence known at 221B once again. As if he wouldn't have given any thought to that possibility; it was a scenario he had been aware of happening since he first stepped back onto London's streets in December. Explaining the relationship he held with Madeline to her, however, was not something he counted on. It wasn't in the realm of realism at the time. Now, several months later, the facts had changed.

Were they changed for the better? At that point in the juncture, he would definitely had to say yes. Actually acting on what he, for lack of a better term, felt, was liberating. And Madeline herself was…just…a challenge. One that he relished pursuing.

It was prudent, then, that Fate should turn her wheel once again, and deal him a new dilemma.

The first indication that something was amiss was the slightly opened door to Holmes' domicile. His rules concerning the rooms were extensive, even to how the door should be at any given point in time. When he was alone or working on an experiment, it was shut and locked. That fact was also true of when he was not in. When with Watson and other stragglers (clients, he had to remind himself), it would be wide open. For propriety's sake (most of the time) it was the same whenever Madeline was over, although if it was late enough he could managed getting the door shut and locked without gaining Nanny Hudson's attention.

The next bit of data was the scent of Parisian perfume wafting out. A specific Parisian perfume that shot straight up the nostrils and left one quite unable to smell anything else. And the third point of fact he'd discovered was the lady's overcoat draped just inside the doorway. He wrinkled his noise in distaste before pushing the door all the way open.

And there she was, seated in his favorite chair, the tea service set up on a table by her side and a wide smile on her face. Irene was posed perfectly, her green silk dress catching the light and making her blue eyes dance. Dark brunette locks were piled atop her head, a few shaken loose when she turned her head in his direction.

"Sherlock!" she cried, leaping from her chair and smothering him in a massive hug. Awkwardly he patted her back, and thankfully she pulled away without trying to clamp her kisses on his mouth or cheeks. "I'd heard you were…but you're…I'm so pleased to see that you're alive!"

"I'm pleased to be alive, madam," he told her, closing the door and maneuvering away to stand by the fireplace. A cursory check of the room indicated that she had not touched, moved, or taken any item from its place. Except for the tea service obviously brought up by Mrs. Hudson, and the picture…

The picture of Irene he'd obtained, which had been placed face down on its perch, was righted. Clearly Adler had put it back up, they way it belonged she'd most likely assumed.

He shook his head at his inner monologue. How wrong she was.

"Forgive me for being blunt, but what on earth brings you here, woman?" Holmes asked her directly, arms behind his back and a single eyebrow raised at her airy laugh.

"What do you think? With Moriarty gone, and you being alive…" she trailed off, smoothing down her dress. "I'm paying a call. Showing my gratitude, as it were."

_'On guard, old boy, on guard,'_ his brain chided, his physical response to it being a slight inclination of the head.

"Having a care for my safety was something I didn't know you had in you."

He raised a hand. "Pardon the interruption, but your safety, albeit a troubling thought, was not at the forefront of my mind."

Her smile wavered. "Of course. Watson, being your dearest friend, comes first. But I know that I was close, that I was in your mind. Won't you sit, take some tea with me?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I've learned better than to ingest liquids with you around, Irene."

_**There's a fine, fine line between a fairy tale and a lie, and there's a fine, fine line between "you're wonderful" and "goodbye"…**_

She grinned, her tight grin that revealed how she relished the memory. Besting him as frequently as possible was a fantastic pastime, after all. Still, she poured a cup of tea for both of them and demonstrably sipped out of both to indicate the security.

"Nothing sinister, I assure you. The landlady watched me like a hawk."

Sherlock snorted. "Well, she's learning after all, then."

Then and only then he sat, making the conscious effort to push his chair back so that she would have to get up to come anywhere near him. Her gaze never wavered, an eyebrow inclining at his motions when he finally came around. Irene wasn't about to complain, though. This was a personal visit, and she wanted to savor it. She intended to build another memory, and she wouldn't spoil it if she could help it.

A few moments ticked by, with Irene watching Holmes and the sleuth choosing instead to watch the clock wind down the minutes. Ten minutes. Ten full minutes without witticisms or sarcastic jabs. It was quiet, calm. It put Sherlock on edge, knowing she had some ulterior motive for being there. Adler always had a motive. He just had to wait for her to speak up.

And finally, she did. Setting down her china cup with a delicate clink, she cleared her throat. "I want to return to a discussion we had…at the beginning of the Moriarty mess."

His dark eyes flashed dangerously. _'Don't you dare…don't you dare.'_

"He's gone now, we're safe, and Moran is locked up. All the danger is cleared from our paths. And…what I said about not running anymore, I meant it. I don't want to run, skipping one step ahead of the noose for the rest of my life."

She leaned forward, so far forward that she would've fallen out of her chair if she hadn't have gripped the table's edge. Freeing up one hand, she reached over and placed it on his knee. His gaze shot down and back up at her face in a heartbeat, his jaw tightening.

"I'm repeating my offer, and I know I can make a clean break this time, with your help, of course. Come away with me."

_**But there's a fine, fine line between love and a waste of your time.**_

Sherlock looked her over from the crown of her brown curls to the tips of her black shoes peeking out from under the skirt. Another time, another place, and with much suspicion, he would be inflamed by such a declaration. But years had passed since their first encounter, since the first time he found that she was more than just a criminal and blackmailer. Since he…he grimaced at the thought.

The detective sighed, removing The Woman's hand from his leg and rising from his seat. "There have been too many years and too many shattered ideals passed for that idea to be genuinely plausible."

_**And I don't have the time to waste on you anymore…for my own sanity, I've got to close the door and walk away...**_

Once, twice, three times she blinked, holding back tears. It was a novel act, Adler tearing up, but it did not affect him. Well, it did not move him to pity her, in any case.

"Really. Forgive me if, until recently, I would find some doubt in your claim," she retorted, tightening her shoulders defiantly. Damn, she wasn't completely thrown off, then.

"Trust my answer on this to be the final one. I believe it would be best for you to go," Sherlock attempted to say, but he was cut off by her preemptive hand.

"Allow me to be the detective, Sherlock, and follow a theory of my own."

"You know what I think of theories, madam."

Irene glared. "For years you've had me play at your game, I think I've at least earned the right to make you listen to my deductions."

Against his better judgement, he nodded for her to go on. What she had to say would be interesting, for a moment, anyway.

"I deduce that up until me, you lacked interest in women. Not recreationally, not in being friendly or sociable, or at least not for very long. Not until I came around."

Holmes looked at the clock again. "Perhaps. Pray, continue."

"I catch your attention because I have something that doesn't belong to me, and you can't get it from me. I withhold something from you, a mystery, and you like that. You pursue me, and I in turn goad you, because I find it fascinating to see you pay attention to so much detail. In the end, what we have is a rivalry based on novelty, which progresses past that."

She paused, sipping from his cold tea to soothe her throat before going on.

"You are attracted to novelty, to competition. I've given you that for years, and you have in turn done the same for me. We can always depend upon each other to give one another a good chase, with a capture here and there. But then, another player enters the chase, without either consent or knowledge until it is too late."

Her bright eyes glazed over with subtle anger, slight jealousy. Irene proclaimed, "She is a novelty, a new toy to play with. Or was, which I admit she was very intriguing at the beginning of her case. Foul play in a carriage accident? What's not intriguing about that?"

Ah, so she did have a finger on the pulse, then. Sherlock settled against the mantelpiece, starting to grow bored. "Certainly right there, my dear lady."

Adler rolled her eyes. "How long, though, can she be entertaining? Frankly, a girl like her are a dime a dozen. More like a penny, really. She can fight, and I assume she can think, otherwise you would've turned her out long ago. But how long can the novelty last, Sherlock? She's so…not suited to the world we live in."

"I think, had you been researching more conclusively, that she has proven you wrong on several separate occasions," the detective murmured, jumping suddenly to Madeline's defense. So much for a few quiet words between phrases, he thought. That got Irene to get out of her chair.

"You can't deny that I am dependable for intrigue, no matter where I am."

He shrugged. "I've never said otherwise. Madeline's made the same argument for you, as well."

Irene's head jerked back, as if she was surprised that Madeline would deign to discuss her at all.

"But," Sherlock went on, "I've learned that you are only dependable for that. You're just as guilty as I am for being restless, for wanting to do better than someone else. She…challenges me, but it's more than, to put it indelicately, a pissing contest. Frankly that aspect of our relationship has always irked me, but you were enough to overcome it."

The Woman snorted, "Until now."

He shrugged. "Madeline has never been out for sport with me. It's never been about that. There's something more…substantial, than what you've offered. She's always given something more."

_**There's a fine, fine line between together and not…you gotta go after the things you want while you're still in your prime...**_

Silence surrounded them, giving the conversation time to settle in. As it did so, Irene squinted at Sherlock curiously, trying to figure out what he was telling her in between the words.

"Something more?" she inquired, hands gripping her skirt so tightly she thought she might rip the fabric. Holmes tapped the mantle with his fingers, looking off into the distance as if he could see her there. The soft expression on his face and in his eyes was one that Irene had never seen. He'd been tender to her, of course, but it was always leavened with suspicion, puzzlement. He could never trust her with revealing that look. Holmes glanced back at Adler, brought back to reality and shielding himself once again physically and mentally.

"On both sides," he confessed gingerly, waiting to see her response. Save for the mixing fury and questioning in her eyes, Irene was the picture of calmness.

"You love her?" Irene's next question chilled him, as if she was attempting to pelt him with ice as she asked. How could he possibly answer that? He was a thinking machine, each moved dictated by his brain and each calculation blocking the rising gorge of feelings that every human had. It hit him at that moment: no matter how hard he tried to escape it, he was human. He could feel…it just did not dictate his every move.

Did he love Madeline? His mind was flooded with her voice, her movements, her green eyes, freckled face, the scars on her arms and legs, her defining courage and appalling change of moods.

Holmes could not say the words. He hoped a simple nod would suffice.

Irene blanched, but only shifted her weight onto her other leg. "It's rather soon to be realizing this, don't you think?"

He tilted his head to the side. "Honestly, it was much earlier than a few months ago that I realized this. This is just the first time you're aware of it at all."

She coughed, shifting her eyes to look at the floor. "It was from when I…"

"Building up before that, Irene." He turned away from her, waving a hand towards the door. "If you wish to start anew, don't let me stop you. Farewell, Miss Adler."

Another minute or two went by, before Irene moved again. Her body was in flight mode, no matter what her pasted-on smile said. She strode towards the door, threw on her jacket, and clapped the hat buried underneath it on her head. Just her fingers closed around the door handle and Sherlock thought he was free, she paused.

"If you should ever change your mind…"

He looked over his shoulder, the determination in his eyes set. "I won't. Good-bye, Irene."

With that said, Irene eased her way out the door, tromped down the stairs, and disappeared into the streets of London for the last time. At least, he hoped for the last time as he stalked over to the end table and picked up the photograph of her. The likelihood of that happening was beyond him, and on that note he opened the wall safe and placed Irene's memory inside, locking it up in the darkened past.

_**There's a fine, fine line between love and a waste of time.**_

The time passed, and he was unaware of the change of hours until Mrs. Hudson came in, announcing that Mrs. St. James at the door, and would he mind if she was sent up, despite the late hour? A clock in the hall chimed seven times, and he grunted his approval at the landlady. Sounds of steps going down were followed by feet climbing back up. The door open and shut rapidly, the lock remaining unbolted for the moment.

"Hullo, I know this is late notice, but Watson was just-" Madeline began, only to be cut off by Holmes' fast approach and his lips capturing hers. They stayed like that for a time, with him trying to convey what he'd never felt before her and certainly couldn't say…yet.

When he pulled away, he was amused to find her impishly grinning.

"What was that for?" she asked as his hands moved from clasping her shoulders to resting on her waist.

He shrugged, half-smiling as well.

"You're being so sweet…I should think that something is wrong," she giggled.

"Not at all," he chimed, leading her further into the room. _'And for once, that is the truth.'_

* * *

**Author's note, edited 10/25/12:** After doing a series of revisions to other chapters in this story, I realized that this one specifically needed more work. I've never been really happy with how things with Irene and Sherlock ended the first few times I wrote it, but with some time and distance, I've found that this works so much better. Irene/Sherlock shippers still won't be too fond of it, but again, this is labeled a Sherlock/OC story, and I've been building up to it for over twenty chapters. Hope you enjoyed it!


	24. All I Ask of You

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "All I Ask of You" from the musical _The Phantom of the Opera _(in bold).

* * *

September 30th, 1893

The atmosphere surrounding 221B was tense, if Watson were to choose the right descriptive word. It had been since he'd walked through the door to visit with Holmes. It was an afternoon in which Madeline was actually not dancing attendance to her man. She'd left for Kent, on a holiday to visit her friend Mrs. Tyler. With Sherlock potentially ready to strip the boards off the walls in ennui, he thought it wise to spend a few days at the residence, his son welcomed as well. The little boy was off with his nanny at the park, and for a moment, John was envious of William.

Warily he eyed his companion, the impatient strides of the darker man setting the doctor on edge. The detective had been that way since John had come up, the newest copy of The Strand under his arm and an apologetic look on his face. But strangely enough, it wasn't the literature that had Holmes teetering on the brink.

"Your deplorable stories never affect me thusly," he'd remarked when asked, brown eyes rolling in exasperation. "No, no, it's nothing to do with you, old boy."

"Do tell, then, what it is," Watson nearly begged, settling into a chair and watching his friend tap at a stack of papers with his foot until it toppled over. A grin flashed briefly on Sherlock's lips; the décor of the flat been improved yet again. Then agitation would take over, and back to the pacing he would go.

"Brother Mycroft is delivering me something of the upmost importance in a matter of minutes, and I am…curious as to whether everything will go according to plan," he confessed, tugging on the sleeves of his ratty smoking jacket. Swooping down, he retrieved his clay pipe off the floor and began to fiddle with it. Magically he'd found and stuffed some tobacco into it, and soon enough had it lit and was puffing great clouds of smoke.

Coughing at the ghastly shroud, John threw open the windows.

"Is that all? What, is it necessary to any ongoing investigations you haven't told me about?"

'_Or bothered me with in the middle of the night with,'_ the doctor grumbled inwardly. Holmes had developed the annoying habit of knocking him up occasionally, asking for his assistance on a case, after midnight. His patients had begun prescribing him their own sleep medications; he'd begun to look so haggard. Thankfully Holmes shook his head, relieving him of any possible deductive duties.

"No. Besides, my brother and I have an understanding in that department: I never bother him with my livelihood unless it is absolutely vital to do so."

"And what are the consequences of breaking said understanding?"

Sherlock snorted. "Brotherly torture. What else?"

Watson smiled, thinking back on his own escapades with his own brothers. Unwritten rules that were broken had the required punishment of brawls until Father or Mother pulled them apart. The whole situation stank of the "don't nag me or I will pound the daylights out of you" edict, and so he began to chuckle.

"Here I thought the Holmes brood was above familial hostility, and yet you've proven me wrong," the doctor replied, noting the sleuth's halfhearted nod and shrug. Finally the bell by the front door rang, and Mrs. Hudson's weary voice carried through the floorboards. The answering party responded softly, before heavy footsteps up the stairwell indicated Mycroft's arrival outside the door. He entered without permission or preamble, an almost troubled look upon his features.

The older Holmes had put on a bit more weight since the last time Watson had seen him, the crow's feet had grown wider and the jowls pronounced, but he still carried himself like his brother did: a hint of swagger inside self-assured pride.

"Hello, brother," Mycroft remarked, awkwardly going over to Sherlock and clapping him on the shoulder. The younger Holmes returned the gesture, and then made a sweeping movement towards the last empty chair. Gratefully Mycroft nodded his thanks and sat quickly. "And good day to you as well, doctor."

"I'm pleased to see you again, sir," John murmured, sitting up in his chair and trying to not seem too intrigued by the matter that would eventually be addressed. Pleasantries were made, comments about the weather exchanged, and Sherlock's foot tapped faster and faster.

"Come now, Sherlock, it's hardly proper to be this irritated and impatient," his brother rebuked him mildly. "Although I gather you're not merely keen, but anxious about the events after this afternoon's altercation, and nervousness…can you truly think I would not have kept it, or is it that you doubted I would bring it to you safely?"

_**No more talk of darkness, forget these wide-eyed fears…nothing can harm you…**_

"Do I have to tell you the answer, really?" Holmes smirked, shaking his head.

"Ah, the latter, then."

'_This conversation is maddening already,'_ John mused, rubbing a single finger against his temple. He kept his mouth shut, though. One false word and he could be pushed out the door and the secretive goings-on would remain a mystery forever. He must've groaned, though, because suddenly two sets of eyes, dark brown and deep blue, were searching him over.

"Groaning indicates a desire for us to get to the point," Sherlock surmised.

'_Oh Lord, here we go…'_

"Therefore logic would denote that he has no idea of what we speak and wants to know the truth," Mycroft rejoined promptly. "Interest is piqued, which is a feat considering the lack of sleep and the wandering eyes. Caused most likely by your nighttime visits, which is also a feat because of-"

"Please, brother, that's hardly something to bring up in polite conversation. Especially since the party of whom you were about to speak is not present."

A wink flew in the detective's direction. "Apologies."

"I can feel a headache coming on," groused Watson as he rose from his chair and turned his back on the Holmes boys. "Your business has nothing to do with me, so please go on as if I am not here."

A moment of silence fell, and though he couldn't see them, John had the distinct feeling that the brothers were both holding back large grins at his frustration.

"Very well…are you totally certain you want it, Sherlock? This is the first time you've ever requested me to retrieve something of this nature, and I have confess I have a few questions," Mycroft broke the quiet, his eyes sweeping back to his little brother. The younger man nodded and inclined his head, essentially telling him to ask away. "What brought this about?"

"Something I never thought would be present in my life," Sherlock told him, molding his words into a puzzle that the good doctor could not decipher.

"Have you thought it through? This is no trivial matter."

"Do I not always think things through to their logical conclusion?"

"There is nothing logical at all about this. At least, not in the sense of living out the pursuit. You can think about it all you want, but this is going to affect every facet of your life. Tell me, can you go through with this?"

The impact of a bottom smashing into a chair's seat was the only sound for a few minutes, before the sleuth's voice cut the air.

"As far as I can recall, I've never made a decision quite like this. Everything is orderly, in its proper place…but this breaks my order and my strictures. I comprehend that going down this path is not something to be taken lightly, and it is going to change things, no matter how much I despise change when it concerns me. The fact remains, though, that this is the path I want to take."

Risking a glance over his shoulder, Watson saw that the brothers were facing one another, one contemplative and the other wide-eyed.

"Is that a satisfactory answer, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked lightly, pulling his smoking jacket straighter and sitting forward in his seat. He locked his gaze onto his brother's until the older Holmes glanced at the floor. Fishing in a pocket of his own jacket, Mycroft merely let out a breath.

"Mum would be turning over in her grave if she knew."

"If Mum knew, I suspect she wouldn't let me have it at all," quipped the detective, causing his sibling to laugh. A small package emerged from the pocket, and was shuffled onto the nearby end table. In a strangely humble tone, Sherlock continued, "Thank you, by the way."

Mycroft smiled lazily, pushing himself onto his feet. "I had no use for it, and having it sit tight in a lockbox for years wouldn't have done anyone any good."

With a nod to the doctor and a wink shot at his brother, the older Holmes departed without another word. As the door shut, the younger Holmes hesitantly touched the package left behind. The brown paper and string ties belied its very real importance, the commonplace coverings of a monumental gesture.

"What did he bring you?" Watson cut to the chase, peering down his nose at the item. Swiftly Sherlock stuffed it into his trouser pocket.

"It's nothing. Nothing to do with you, like I said before," he responded cheekily.

For once, he was going to enjoy shocking Watson when he discovered the truth.

**xXxXxXx**

October 2nd, 1893

For two days, he had to sit on it.

Sherlock Holmes, a man of infinite patience and a practitioner of peace while deducing the world's greatest mysterious, was hopelessly wracked with nerves. His muscles were so tightly wound that only a visit to the boxing ring got him to relax, to clear his mind. What he was about to do was totally out of his character, completely against his own code…

But then again, what cared he for codes? To hell with it; he could decide his course, he would rearrange the rules.

The little secret was burning a hole in his pocket, twisting his sanity as the time ticked by. Madeline had promised to come to him that night…three more hours…two…twenty minutes…

The nearly imperceptible swing of the front door crashed through his concentration, and Holmes was back on his feet again. It was so strange to be this riled up over a woman. She wasn't just a woman; this was a person to whom he'd bonded intellectually, emotionally (shockingly enough), and physically. His blood ran in her veins; her essence invaded his life.

He prepared for her, squaring his stance and raising his chin. Sherlock was ready as she flew through the door, but her bright smile and glowing eyes caused a foreign feeling to course through his body: apprehension.

Could he really do this?

Throwing her arms around him, Madeline pecked him on the cheek.

"I've missed you."

_**I'm here, with you, beside you, to guard you and to guide you…**_

His arms stole around her waist, and he pretended to listen to her outpouring of how Julianne was thoroughly scandalized by her husband's affair with the housekeeper's daughter and Madeline dueling challenge to a prominent fencer in the area (he tuned in on that part at least), but he chastised himself for his loss of nerve.

'_Shame on you, old chap! You have been through worse incidents, made more harrying decisions. Buck up and do it, already.'_

"I…" he started, only to be interrupted by Madeline's urgent kisses. He was taken aback by this sudden outpour of affection; she must've truly missed his company.

"I hate being in the company of morons. You've utterly spoiled me for life," she muttered, trailing her lips down his throat.

'_Spoiled you for life?'_

_**Say you need me with you now and always…promise me that all you say is true…**_

Well…perhaps it could wait until later…

**xXxXxXx**

At midnight, Madeline felt something pressing around one of her fingers. Her eyelids fluttered open, taking in the darkened room and sighing happily. Even though she was gone for a few days, she'd longed for the chaos of Holmes' abode, the dark stacks of paper and evidence, the knife driven into the mantle, the heavy shades blocking all but one window. In the midst of their activities, they had made their way to the bed, and she was cozy beneath the sheets.

_**Let me be your shelter, let me be your light…you're safe, no one will find you…**_

Her absence at her own house was making an impression on her staff, but she couldn't be there for longer than a few hours anymore. It just…didn't feel right. Here, with Sherlock, in his mess, in his bed did she feel like she belonged. She felt at home.

A single candle was lit and balanced on the footboard precariously, its low light stretching towards her weakly. Sitting up, she noticed her lover propped up beside her, his hand curled around hers. Tightening the sheet around her naked torso and smiling at him, she realized something about her left hand.

On the third finger sat a ring. A gold band with three small diamonds.

_**Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime…say you need me with you here beside you…**_

Time froze, indeed her very blood seemed to stop flowing. Impossible…it was impossible…

Taking in her quivering lips and surprised blinking, Holmes began to idly stroke her forearm. His dark eyes bore into her, and he let her mind wrap itself around the band.

"Will you?" he whispered, seriousness weighing heavily on the words. It was a proposal that wasn't really a proposal; how very like Sherlock to pose the question in such a way, she reflected with some amusement. Madeline thought back, remembered the last time this question was asked. It had led to a time inhabitated by misery and ended by premature death, which she would've endured better had she loved the man she was with. Could she do it again, with another man? Another man who lived a dangerous life, a maddening life?

_**Anywhere you go, let me go too…**_

Sherlock was like no other man she'd known. In her heart, she knew that the last time would never really compare to the future. So there really was no question of doing it again. It was really a question of starting anew, of starting with love.

_**Love me, that's all I ask of you.**_

What other answer could she give?

"…Yes."

* * *

**Author's note:** I know…I know, a lot of you out there are Holmes purists and think the guy should never marry an OC. Well, Laurie R. King did it, and there was a forty year age difference. Plus, Mary Russell was basically Holmes' female clone, and I've tried to make Madeline not like that. So if you guys hate this turn of events, I'm sorry, but A)I've kinda been building up to it for twenty-odd chapters, and B) Keep in mind that the story's almost over.

On that note, I will say that this is the second-to-last chapter of "Blood Bond". I'll say my good-byes next chapter, but I will tell you all thank you for sticking with me this far, and lending my advice when I really needed it, as well as encouragement. So thanks for reading, PLEASE review, and I'll see you all for the final chapter next week!


	25. Something

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

**Song lyrics:** "Something" by The Beatles (in bold).

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November 5th, 1893

The doctor was floored by the duo's announcement to marry, but the sleuth could've sworn he heard John mutter that "it's about bloody time" under his breath. Watson was good enough to suggest a minister to do the job. For the right price, the man was employed, and persuaded to keep in an office in the bowels of the church ("We will still be in the house of God, just in His basement," the sleuth pointed out to the priest) and with the minimum of two witnesses. John and Mrs. Hudson readily agreed to be there, and so that left only a few more details. The date was picked, the dress selected, and suddenly here they were, hand-clasped and listening to the priest's recitations.

_**Something in the way she moves attracts me like no other lover…I don't want to leave her now…**_

Madeline, at the very least, wanted a proper gown. That was the most she insisted on for the wedding; the honeymoon to Scotland was a joint decision between her and her intended. Curiously, she did not care to have hundreds of people coming, or to even wait longer than a few months (a month and a half, really). Simple, quiet, almost secretive was wanted, and when asked about it in the middle of October, she shrugged.

"_My last marriage was done in St. Paul's with nearly two hundred people I didn't know coming, with great pomp and ceremony, and then it ended in death. It was all a show. Better by far to be married with only a few witnesses rather than with thousands who I will not care for or remember being there," Madeline explained, settling into the window seat in Holmes' flat. "And then of course there's your reputation for being unmarriageable. Can't go destroying that with a big ceremony, can we?"_

_Holmes snorted, the smirk he was sporting softening. "I care not. Big or small congregation, it's the vows that matter."_

_**Somewhere in her smile she knows that I don't need no other lover…**_

"_Too true, sir," she replied, her face glowing with contentment. And the conversation was left there, with her pouring over a new book and him with the strange feelings she always stirred in him churning his stomach. He couldn't stop himself from sitting next to her, he so wanted to be nearer to Madeline_

_Running his fingers through his tangled tresses, Holmes half turned towards her, the flames flickering in his irises. Th afternoon passed thusly, him trapped in his own thoughts and her cherishing the moment of peace they had._

_**You're asking me will my love grow…I don't know, I don't know…You stick around now it may show…**_

Holmes was shocked at his behavior, his plans, but knew deep down he would never change his mind. He took his decision when he realized that there was no life without her, or at least it would be empty. Sure, there was the work, and the drugs, and the doctor to rely on, but sooner or later one or all of those things could fail him. The work would end, the cocaine would lose its effect as he built immunity, and John could very well abandon him if was too far gone for help.

Somehow, he knew this woman wouldn't fail him. Disappoint him? Most likely. Infuriate him? Definitely. But leave him? Never. It was a certainty.

"…I will," Holmes answered quietly, gaze locked on the woman beneath the veil. They stood at the forefront of the priest's office, hidden from prying eyes. The priest's questions continued for Madeline and he found it oddly beguiling of her to answer in a calm voice but be nearly on the brink of tears. He shook his head and smirked, not letting himself be affected by her emotion.

'_Look at you, old boy. At the altar, and willing! Quite the far cry from the twenty-year-old bachelor who declared that he would never be tied down to any woman. Indeed, the lad who so wanted to devote himself to his profession and experiments seems to have disappeared…or matured, that makes a bit more sense,'_ he mused privately. _'And to think, marrying the woman who called you a horse's arse, multiple times. Maybe it's not maturity, rather a change in tastes. Oh dear, this ceremony better move on quickly, my logical mind is about to revolt.'_

"I will," her voice crashed through the thoughts, jerking him back to the present. Shakily, he watched her withdraw from his grasp and let Sherlock reach towards a waiting Watson. Mrs. Hudson stood in the back of the room, grip tightened around the shoulders of little William, who began straining against her. Smiling, John beckoned the boy forward. Nervously, the boy placed a ring in the detective's hand, and received a hair-tussling for his efforts.

"I give you this ring, as a symbol of my…love, and fidelity," Holmes choked out, still stuck on the word he'd taken years off his life to avoid ever engaging or speaking about. The ring slid on easily, and then it was Madeline's turn.

"I give you this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity," she said, fixing the band on his left ring finger. It was plain silver, no adornments. Perfect for a man who had no care for flashy items. A few more blessings later (Holmes began to tap his foot impatiently, and Madeline pinched him to make him stop), and the priest finally presented Mr. and Mrs. Sherlock Holmes.

Smiling wide, Madeline flung back her own veil and met Holmes halfway when they were given permission to kiss. The Watsons and Mrs. Hudson clapped heartily, all the way through their signing of the marriage certificate.

As Madeline went to finish her signature, she felt Holmes' arms encircling her, and his mouth pressed near her ear.

"Now you're mine…both in blood and bond."

_**Don't want to leave her now…You know I believe her now…**_

And he, of course was right. Maddeningly, frustratingly, wonderfully right. She had prided herself with being independent, and with being able to manage on her own. Which she still could do…but now, she didn't want to be anymore. She was freed through losing her blood, and with this man's donation she'd found the courage to move on from her less-than-pleasant past.

Bonded in blood, in thought, in word, in deed, and on paper, now she could only wonder what the future would hold. No life with Sherlock Holmes would be easy, and she certainly knew that. Then again, neither would it be understimulating.

And with the certificate signed, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes exited the little church, ready to march towards their future.

**xXxXxXx**

November 6th, 1893

Charged with the care of the Holmes residence in their absence, Watson wearily trumped over to Baker Street, his young son gallivanting around him. He'd argued for the longest time with Sherlock on the subject, protesting that Mrs. Hudson was a housekeeper, and therefore could do the job without him. A lot of good it did him, as Holmes manipulated him so swiftly and so subtly that he was still stewing over how he was talked into house-sitting on the trip over.

William, having grown quite a bit in a short amount of time, was a fast and lithe little boy. He had his father's imposing stance when trying to act grown-up, and his mother's smattering of freckles and charming demeanor when he played. Right now, he wasn't being very charming; in point of fact, the boy was acting like a little demon, tearing around and refusing to keep to his father's side. Watson truly began to regret both choosing the walk and not leaving his son with the nanny.

"William, stay by me!" he snapped, causing his boy to glare back at him. The lad had Mary's eyes, and when her eyes went that narrow, he knew a peal was about to be wrung over his head.

"No, Papa!" Will cried, speedily tramping ahead on the busy sidewalk. Fearing for his safety, Watson moved at double time, his war wounds cutting him deeper and deeper as he went. Wickedly, the boy would slow down and wait for his father to get closer before running away again. "No, Papa, no!"

"Come back, William! Papa can't…" he trailed off, his leg suddenly twinging horribly. Half gasping, half screaming, John dropped to one knee, finally halting his son's rash behavior. Hollering in fright, William went to his father's side and tugged his arm, just as another pair of hands grabbed under his arms.

"Let me help you, sir," purred a soft voice, the accent retaining it Devonshire burr. Marvelously, he was hoisted up with little aid from him. Turning to thank whoever was helping him, he was taken aback by the girl standing behind him. The woman had hair black as night, eyes dark as coal, and an oval face that was ruddy red. She did not look down or away; she looked him straight in the eye, as she was nearly as tall as him. As he gaped awhile longer, she had time to giggle, scoop up his walking stick, and press it back into his hands. "Alright there, sir?"

Finally John found his voice. "Yes, indeed. Thank you very much, you did not need to feel obligated to help me."

"You're quite welcome. My brother has a limp as well, so I am used to helping him back onto his feet. No obligation at all."

Kneeling down to William's level, she chuckled again when the boy hid behind his father's legs.

"Why are you hiding from me, little one?"

William gasped, " 'Cause you big!"

Wincing at his son's response, Watson relaxed when the lady laughed outright.

"My dear boy, that may be so, but you don't need to be afraid of me. Now, can you promise me something?" she continued, holding the young one's gaze steadily. Inch by inch, William withdrew from his hiding spot and nodded. "Could you watch and make sure your father does not fall again? Perhaps you could stay with him; running fast after naughty boys doesn't agree with him today."

Chastised, William nodded again. "Yes, lady."

"Thank you, lad," she murmured, brushing off her skirt and standing at her full height again. Extending her hand towards John, she crowed, "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister…?"

Scolding himself for his loss of manners, Watson took her hand and shook it.

"Doctor. Doctor John Watson."

She grinned. "Ah, Doctor Watson. I'm Miss Bayard. I think your son will stick by you now."

"Thank you, again."

Flicking her dark hair over her shoulder, she inclined her head in welcome. Dropping him a rapid curtsy, she bid him farewell and melted into the crowds lining the sidewalks. Watching her go, Watson felt himself release a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

_**Something in the way she knows…And all I have to do is think of her…Something in the things she shows me…Don't want to leave her now…**_

"Pretty girl, Papa," William piped up, gripping his fingers hard and pulling towards the direction of 221B. Guided by his son's enthusiastic tugging, John watched the dark head of the woman bob off into the distance, a grin creeping unbeknownst onto his lips.

"Yes, Willy, very pretty."

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**Author's note:** …Does this mean…? Yes! It means a sequel is on the way. This time, it will be focused a bit more on Watson, but Sherlock and Madeline will definitely still be featured. However, I will be taking a break for a week or two to recover after this very arduous journey that I have taken.

Wow. Twenty-five chapters. This is my longest story, and the one I am happiest with by far. I made Holmes get married…yeah, it happened. Oh well!

In any case, I want to thank all my reviewers for their positive encouragement, their suggestions, and their constructive criticism when I needed it. Thank you to even my silent readers, those who put this on their Story Alert, because having people even silently reading it makes endeavors like this worthwhile. Thank you so much, really. :)

**EDITEDITEDIT:** Alright, I should've gotten to this sooner, I should've edited this chapter BEFORE I began the sequel, but that's neither here nor there at this point. The sequel is entitled _His Home _and it's right here in the Sherlock Holmes 2009 fanfiction section. PLEASE read it, please! Ok, edit over, enjoy your day, and thank you!


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